As Long As You Burn
by slang101
Summary: After Alexa's death, Methos goes to Duncan for comfort, and both end up getting more than they bargained for
1. Chapter 1

_**As Long As You Burn**_

_c. 1996 _

_Warning! This Story Is Rated NC-17! Contains graphic homoerotic (m/m) sexual content written in loving detail. If you can't handle that, don't read it. If you can't handle that and you read it anyway, don't complain to me. Please do not read this story if you are considered a minor in your locale._

_Highlander is a trademark of Rysher Entertainment, characters not used by permission. No infringement is intended. This work is not to be marketed for profit.-_

* * *

Duncan slid a surreptitious glance at Methos, trying to keep the concern he felt from showing on his face. The older immortal looked, to put it mildly, like hell. He had lost weight, giving him a gaunt, hollowed look, and cheekbones that could cut glass. His normally fair skin held a faintly greenish tinge. He was taking Alexa's death harder than Duncan had expected from someone as old as he was. In some ways it was reassuring that even an immortal as old as Methos could still feel to this depth, but he hated seeing his friend suffer.

If it had been Amanda who had lost someone, Mac would have known what to do. He'd have taken her in his arms and held her while she cried it out. He would have taken her to the circus or a silly movie to cheer her up, maybe taken her to bed to remind her how to feel. Unfortunately, this was Methos, not Amanda. Most of his normal instincts were geared toward comforting women, not men. Besides . . . how the hell did one offer comfort to a man who had seen millennia of life? What could he possibly say that Methos hadn't heard a thousand times before?

Not wanting to be obvious, he looked away, then back, then away again. Methos sighed heavily.

"I'm all right, MacLeod."

Duncan felt himself color. Caught. Still, it was an opening. "I know you are, Methos, and I also know you're not."

Methos turned to look at him, his hazel eyes shadowed. After a moment he looked away again without replying. Duncan reached over and put a hand on his arm, applying a gentle pressure.

"Methos, it's all right to grieve. I understand."

Methos swallowed heavily, and shook his head. "I can't, MacLeod. I. . . it just doesn't want to come. It's just sitting there inside me like a rock. Damn!" his sudden exclamation was punctuated by an explosion of motion as he launched himself off the couch and strode over to look out the small, round window toward the soaring spires of Notre Dame. "She wanted to see that," he said, his voice oddly flat. "There were so many things she wanted to see. And I almost had it, I almost had it!"

Duncan realized he meant the Methuselah Stone, purported to bestow immortality on mortals. He remembered seeing the pieces of the stone separate as it fell into the Seine, unrecoverable. He got to his feet, walking over to stand next to his friend, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"Methos, we don't even know that it would have worked."

"It would have worked, damn it! It had to work!"

"It just wasn't meant to be." Duncan said, wincing as he realized how stupid that sounded. He expected Methos to round on him with a well-deserved expletive, but he didn't. Instead he braced both hands against the wall and leaned forward until his forehead touched the glass of the port.

"I hate it when they die. I really hate it," he whispered.

"I know," Duncan commiserated. "I don't think there's a worse feeling in the world. So helpless, so damned helpless." Clumsily Duncan half-rubbed and half-patted Methos' back. It felt strange to be offering that touch to Methos. It was a gesture he normally reserved for children, and women. The muscles beneath his hand were rock-hard with tension, making his own back ache in sympathy. Well, this he could help. He tugged at Methos' arm, pulling him away from the wall back toward the couch.

"Come on, your back is like a board. I've been told I'm not bad in the shoulder rub department."

Methos resisted a moment, shooting him an unfathomable glance, then finally he shrugged, giving in. "I won't turn that down. God knows it feels like I've been sleeping on rocks."

Duncan sat down on the couch and gestured to the floor in front of him. Methos snagged a cushion off the couch and dropped it onto the floor with an amused look at Duncan.

"My butt's not as padded as yours," he commented drily. Before Duncan could do more than bridle at the implied insult, Methos hastily added. "Not that that's a bad thing . . . or so Amanda says."

Duncan realized instantly what Methos meant, and he grinned. "Oh she does, does she? Do you two discuss my butt frequently?"

One corner of Methos' mouth quirked upward in an odd smile. "You might be surprised."

Duncan chuckled, shaking his head. "Sit."

Methos complied, settling cross-legged onto the cushion with a sigh as he shrugged his shoulders exaggeratedly. "Lay on, MacLeod."

Duncan winced. "Keep mangling the Bard and you'll forfeit the back rub."

"Not another thee or thou shall pass my lips," Methos promised flamboyantly.

"Good. Now shut up and let me work." He let his hands rest for a moment on the surprisingly narrow shoulders before him. Even in peak form, Methos was lean, but at the moment he was downright thin. Duncan could feel his bones prominently. He started gently but firmly, closing his hands over the taut muscles beneath his fingers, then releasing. Methos groaned softly.

"God, yes."

The sheer pleasure expressed in those two words made Duncan grin. So, he hadn't lost his touch. Though usually the figure beneath his ministrations was more curvaceous, the technique was the same. He set to work in earnest, but Methos' sweater hampered him constantly, bunching and sliding so he couldn't get a good feeling for his subject. After a few minutes he sat back, tugging at the heavy knit. "Take this off."

Methos craned around to look at him, eyebrows lifted.

"It's in the way," Duncan complained, exasperated. "Take it off."

Methos shrugged and complied. Muscles rippled as he drew the sweater off over his head. He might be thin, but it was the whipcord leanness of a greyhound. Duncan felt almost pudgy next to him. Maybe he ought to start working out more.

The skin beneath his fingers took on a faint flush that was a lot healthier than the greenish-white it had been when he started. Duncan found himself grinning as he worked, partly in response to Methos' rather vocal appreciation of his ministrations, and partly out of a sense of accomplishment. It felt good to be doing something, even if it was trivial.

Sometimes he felt so damned useless around Methos. The idea that he'd survived fifty centuries was kind of intimidating. Sometimes he wondered what it was about him that seemed to pull Methos back into his orbit time and again. What made him offer his friendship? Duncan felt he had done nothing to earn it. Distracted, he dug his fingers into the muscles just below Methos' shoulder blades, causing his friend to arch forward with an exclamation of pain.

"Sorry," he said, gentling his touch. "Guess I don't know my own strength."

Methos muttered something in reply.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," Methos said. "Keep going, this is great."

Duncan beamed and continued, working his way downward toward Methos' lower back. Methos' jeans were very loose, probably due to his lost weight. The waistband of his briefs showed at least an inch above it, for all the world like some Midwestern high school boy's. A wicked grin curved Duncan's mouth as his fingers neared the elastic.

"Don't even think about it," Methos advised in a menacing tone.

"Think about what?" Duncan asked innocently as he continued with his massage.

"What you were thinking of."

"How could you know what I was thinking?"

"I know you."

"Ha! You've known me less than two years!"

"It doesn't take long. You have a very juvenile sense of humor."

"Juvenile!" Duncan retorted indignantly. "I'll show you juvenile!" His fingers made an unerring grab for the exposed waistband and he yanked upward, hard. Methos yelped and scrambled away, tugging at his clothing in a hurried attempt to regain both his dignity and comfort. Duncan couldn't control his laughter and collapsed sideways, howling.

Methos stared at him with narrowed eyes. "This means war, MacLeod!" He grabbed the cushion he'd been sitting on and walloped Duncan soundly over the head with it.

Ears ringing, Duncan scrabbled for a weapon of his own, and had just managed to grasp one of the other couch cushions when Methos came in for a flanking attack, knocking it from his hand. Duncan blocked the blows with his forearm as he tried to gain his feet. Seated, he was at a definite disadvantage. He managed to roll off the couch onto the floor, where he crawled quickly away, still weaponless.

A grinning Methos followed him as he got to his feet and dashed for the bed where he grabbed a pillow. It didn't have the mass of the couch-cushion, but at least it was a weapon. The fight began in earnest then, each of them getting in some pretty decent blows, though pillows were unwieldy in comparison to swords. Before long they were laughing too hard to continue and they collapsed across the bed trying to catch their breath. After a moment Methos rolled to sit facing away from him on the floor. After a few more moments, Duncan finally realized that there was something wrong.

Concerned, Duncan moved until he could see his face, and his fears were confirmed as Methos buried his face in his hands in a vain attempt to keep him from seeing that he was crying. Without a second thought, he slid down next to Methos, reaching to hold him, remembering Tessa, and how much he had wished he'd had someone to do this for him when she died. Methos resisted for a moment, then turned his face against Duncan's chest, and slid his arms around him. Duncan held him stroking his hair, surprised that the style which looked harsh and spiky felt like velvet under his hand. It went on for some time, the aching sound of his sobs like knife blades. Thre was nothing he could do except hold him, and rock, and hope it didn't hurt as badly as it sounded like it did.

Methos quieted eventually, and pulled away, sitting up as he took a long, ragged breath. "Sorry," he began.

Duncan cut him off. "No, don't be. If it were me, I'd want someone I could cry with."

"I'm just so tired of death. Gods, everyone dies! Everyone I care about, everyone I love, gone."

"I know," Duncan said, at a loss. What could he say besides that? It was the truth.

Methos turned suddenly, grabbing Duncan's shoulders almost painfully, his expression urgent. "Don't die, Duncan. I couldn't take that. Promise me you won't die!"

"Methos, you know I can't promise something like that!"

Methos shook him. "Promise me!" he snarled, almost feral in his distress.

Stunned, Duncan stammered a reply. "I promise . . . if I have any say in it."

Methos leaned in and kissed him full on the mouth, then abruptly let him go and lunged to his feet, stumbling away to stand by the port hole again. Duncan sat there, stunned silent, the implications of the last few moments beginning to sink in. Duncan studied Methos' back, eyes wide with amazed comprehension. He felt very odd; embarrassed, flattered, even slightly aroused. He should be used to this by now, but it seemed that after four hundred years of declarations of love, he could still be taken completely by surprise.

Certain things suddenly became very clear, things he'd just been wondering about, not ten minutes earlier. Thinking back, he felt rather stupid to have missed it for so long. It was as plain as the nose on Methos' face. He wondered if everyone else had seen it but him. Amanda? Quite possibly. Methos' comment about a conversation with Amanda about Duncan's physiology definitely hinted at it. A wave of relief went through him. He'd had certain rather unusual (for him anyway) thoughts about Methos since they'd first met. Now he could acknowledge that for the first time. He knew he had a silly grin on his face, but couldn't seem to school it to another expression.

He could tell from his stiff posture, though, that Methos thought he'd just committed an unpardonable sin, and he couldn't let him continue to think that. He levered himself to his feet, crossed the floor to where his friend stood, and placed a hand on his shoulder. All the tension he'd worked so hard to erase was back. Methos jerked a little under his touch, and looked around, his gaze wary.

"Methos, it's okay. But damn it, now I have to start all over again. I had all this tension taken care of!"

The older Immortal's expression went from wariness to disbelief, he opened and closed his mouth, reminding Duncan of a fish. Duncan somehow managed not to laugh.

"MacLeod . . . "

"What?"

"You're not angry?"

"Is there some reason why I should be?"

"Uh . . . no, but I thought you would be, after what I did."

Duncan steered him over toward the bed. "Why should I get mad when someone I care about expresses caring in return?" he asked gently. "If anything, I'm touched, very much so."

He saw Methos' throat work as he swallowed heavily, and the eyes that lifted to his were full of tears. He felt a sting in his nose and eyes himself, and pushed playfully at his friend's shoulder. "Hey, I thought we fixed that too. Are you going to undo all my hard work?"

Methos was staring at him, looking more than a little bewildered. "This isn't the reaction I expected!"

"What, was I supposed to toss you out on your butt in defense of my honor or something? Give me a little credit, Methos. I may have been born in the sixteenth century, but I live in the twentieth, you know."

That got a reaction, but not the one he'd wanted. Methos' gaze narrowed almost suspiciously, and suddenly he frowned. "You're humoring the queer, aren't you?"

Duncan scowled. "No, I'm not, and thanks for letting me know you think I'm that shallow!"

Methos backpedalled frantically, waving his hands in the air like a symphony conductor. "No! I didn't mean that! I just meant . . . oh hell, I don't know what I meant. I just didn't expect you to take it so well! I'm having a hard time with this . . . I've read your chronicles, you know. You're a ladies' man, and always have been."

Duncan shook his head, chuckling. Methos, for all his experience, clearly had a few blind spots. "I'll not deny that. I love women, all shapes and sizes of them. However, you know as well as I do that those damned chronicles are as full of holes as a Swiss cheese! There's a lot the Watchers wouldn't know about." He shrugged diffidently. "Let's just say you don't get to be my age without trying a few things."

He could tell by the stunned look on Methos' face that he'd just dropped a bombshell. He decided to press his advantage.

"Now, shut up and lie down so I can undo all the damage you just did."

Methos obeyed, moving like an automaton, but as soon as he touched the mattress he pushed up on his elbows and peered back over his shoulder at Duncan.

"Are you sure you don't want me to leave?"

Duncan rolled his eyes. "Methos, I may be a nice guy, but I'm not that nice. I wouldn't tell you to stay unless I wanted you to."

"I. . . ."

"Down." Duncan ordered firmly, then grinned as Methos complied. He could get used to this. Usually Methos wasn't nearly so acquiescent.

It wasn't until his hands touched Methos' bare back that he realized something had changed. He sat for a moment, fingers resting against resilient and unexpectedly fine-textured flesh, and found that his hands were trembling. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, working by feel alone. Sight was somehow too much. After a few moments he stopped to shake his hands out as if they were cramping, hoping it would still the tremors.

When he reached to resume, he found his hands caught in Methos'. He had big hands, long fingers, warm. A sudden and unexpectedly erotic image of those hands on his body flooded him, and he opened his eyes trying to stop it. Methos let go, and turned over, looking up at him with a very solemn expression.

"Duncan, what do you want?"

It took him a moment to reply. When he finally did, it was as much to himself as to his friend. "I- don't know," he admitted.

"If I leave, things can stay pretty much the same," Methos said, offering alternatives.

"No, they can't," Duncan said quietly.

Methos swore, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. I should never have done that. It was stupid."

"No, actually, I think I'm glad you did."

"Why?"

Duncan took a deep breath before answering, but he was honest. "Because I've been wondering about it, or really, about you, for quite awhile now. To be honest, it's kind of a relief to know how you feel, because that means I don't have to feel strange about what I've been thinking."

Methos chuckled. "Well, that's convoluted logic if ever I heard it."

Duncan made a face. "You know what I meant, right?"

Methos' smile went gentle, and he nodded. "I did, I was just teasing you."

"As usual." Duncan grinned, then after a pause his gaze turned serious. "What about you?"

"What about me?" Methos echoed, puzzled. What did he mean?

"I figure that if I've experimented some after four hundred years, after five thousand you might have a bit- broader experience."

Methos laughed aloud, and fell back on the bed, stretching like a cat. "A bit broader? I'd say so. Male, female. . . after this long, it doesn't matter any more what's on the outside, though your outside is rather more spectacular than most." He grinned, and reached up to touch Duncan's forehead with the tip of his index finger. "What really matters is what's in here. That's what drew me to you long before we ever met. You're unique in your capacity to love, and I envied you that." It's what made me take the chance with Alexa, he thought to himself.

"You envy me? God, you're crazier than I thought!"

Methos shook his head, unaccustomedly solemn. "No, Duncan. It's that capacity that will carry you through to the end, and may just give you the victory."

Duncan stiffened, pushing away Methos' hand where it had dropped to rest on his shoulder. "Don't bring up the Game, damn it! I don't even want to think about it any more. I've lost too many friends to it, and thinking about it only reminds me that winning the game just means all my friends have to lose first."

* * *

'Uh oh, sore spot,' Methos realized. He had long ago come to terms with the fact that he probably would not win the Prize. Death was a kind of prize in itself, and he no longer feared it as he once had, though he wasn't quite ready to give up just yet. There was still too much to do, too much to explore. Duncan, so much younger, hadn't yet found peace with the idea. Methos had to agree with him about losing friends, though. That never got any easier. He smoothed his fingers through the other Immortal's sleek, dark hair. "I'm sorry, let me make it up to you?"

Duncan's gaze went sleepy, and Methos nearly drooled. God, that look! How long had he wanted to have that look aimed at him instead of at the current 'flavor of the week?' No, that wasn't fair. Since they'd met, Duncan had been with only three women he knew of. He was just jealous of all of them.

"What did you have in mind?" Duncan asked in a tone Methos had never heard before.

It made him think of red wine, and dark chocolate, and the taste of sex. It sent shivers down his spine, and echoes elsewhere. The sound made him ache, stirring up all the loneliness and frustrated desire built up inside of him. He found the clasp that held Duncan's hair and released it. As he slid his fingers through the loosened strands he wondered exactly what 'things' Duncan had meant when he said "You don't get to be my age without trying a few things."

"Anything you like," Methos said, finally. "Anything you're comfortable with."

"To be honest, I think I'm going to have to let you take the lead here."

Methos looked his friend over, and understood. "Ah. When you said 'a few' you meant a few, didn't you?"

Duncan nodded, looking embarrassed.

"There's nothing wrong with that, you know." Methos reassured him. "It's perfectly all right." He reached to run his fingers along the faint line of beard-shadow that seemed to draw the eye directly to Duncan's incredibly sensual mouth. Methos had known sculptors who would have killed for a model of this perfection. A warrior-sensualist. A barbarian chieftain with the mind of a general and the heart of a poet. A contradiction embodied in flesh and mind.

He let his fingers stray onto the smooth curve of lower lip, and unconsciously licked his own lips in anticipation. He felt Duncan's mouth curve in a smile, and realized he'd closed his eyes, just absorbing the feel of him. He opened them again and found Duncan watching him, his coffee-dark gaze holding a peculiar mixture of pleasure and trepidation.

"I only want to please you," Methos whispered. "There's no cause for fear."

"I'm not afraid of you," Duncan said quietly.

Methos heard what was unsaid. He might not be afraid of Methos, but he did, a little, fear the experience. That clarified a little what those few things had not included. "Don't worry, we'll go slow, and I won't do anything you don't want me to."

Duncan laughed ruefully. "I'm afraid I don't quite know what that might be."

"Then we'll have to find out, won't we? Just relax, and tell me if you don't like something. Unless you say something, I'll just assume you do." Methos slid his hands beneath the ratty old sweater Duncan was wearing, and began to slowly push it upward, wondering why Duncan habitually dressed so casually. His own wardrobe reflected his ostensible status as a poor graduate student, but Duncan didn't need that camouflage.

Encountering no resistance he went ahead and pushed the sweater over Duncan's head and peeled it the rest of the way off. Indulging in a moment of appreciation for the expanse of smooth, olive skin over hard muscle thus exposed, he reached for the waistband of his jeans. He'd already opened the first button when he sensed the tension in his subject, and stopped. Beneath his hand he could feel the unmistakable ridge of male arousal, a very good sign. Gently, almost as if by accident, he let his hand close a bit more firmly over that prominence. He heard breath hiss over teeth, and he smiled as he lifted his hand.

"Very nice, but we'll get back to that later." Duncan shot him a dark glance from under his eyebrows, and Methos lifted his eyebrows. "Unless, of course, you'd rather I take care of it now."

He reached down, but Duncan caught his arm before he found his goal. Even such an innocuous touch seemed arousing. He could feel every separate finger where they circled his forearm, the broad warmth of Duncan's palm against his inner arm.

"Has anyone ever told you you're a tease?"

"Actually, yes." Methos said, flashing him a grin. "Several someones."

Duncan shook his head and pulled Methos toward him, reaching up with his free hand to turn his face to a better angle. Their lips met, and Methos moaned low in his throat. The kiss he'd given Duncan before had been brief and almost harsh; this one was anything but. Lips, tongue, teeth, touching, drowning. It was too much. He pulled away, gasping for air, explosively aroused and defenseless against his own desire. A wave of guilt swept him. How could he be considering this now? Only weeks after Alexa's death? It wasn't right, it wasn't right for him to feel this need!

Duncan slid his hand behind his neck and pulled him firmly back. He yielded to another onslaught to his senses, feeling the silky warmth of Duncan's skin against his chest, arching against the hard, broad thigh that slid between his own, flooded with sensation, nearly losing control over just a kiss. . . just a kiss. Panicked, he fought and Duncan let him go this time, looking puzzled and a little hurt.

"What's wrong? I thought you wanted. . . ."

Methos put his hand over Duncan's mouth to quiet him while he got himself under control. "I'm sorry," he said when he was finally able to speak. "It was just too much. It's been- well, it's been a tough few months and I guess I didn't realize how. . . ." he paused, searching for the right word, ". . . brittle I am. It feels wrong, somehow, like a betrayal."

Duncan nodded, his own memories etching understanding on his face. "I should have guessed. I remember after Tessa- well, let's just say I've been there. But I also know that it's perfectly natural to need that contact. As Sean once told me, 'the need for contact, whether sexual or not, is the reaffirmation of life in the face of death.' I'm sorry if I rushed things."

"No, don't be sorry, you didn't do anything wrong." Methos gave a rueful laugh, shaking his head. "In fact, it was too right. I almost embarrassed myself."

Duncan's eyebrows shot up. "Just from that?" he asked incredulously.

Methos felt his face get hot as he nodded. "Just from that."

Duncan stared at him for a minute, then slowly an incredibly smug smile curved his mouth. "Well, now isn't that interesting?"

Methos was torn between laughing and hiding. "Not another word, MacLeod."

"I'd say Sean was right, if you react that way to just a kiss. . . ." Duncan let the sentence trail off suggestively, and suddenly Methos found himself being dragged forward by his belt loops.

"Hey. . . what. . . wait!" he gasped as Duncan flipped him onto his back and started tugging downward. He was surprised when his jeans slid right off. He hadn't realized they were quite that loose. Duncan left them around his knees, effectively hobbling him, and his fingers slid up the long expanse of bare thigh, tickling unmercifully. Methos bit his lip to keep from screaming. Propping himself on his elbows, he tried begging.

"Duncan, don't! You know I can't take it."

Duncan looked up at him, eyes smoky. "Don't worry, I'm just going to take the edge off."

Methos closed his eyes and collapsed back onto the bed with a moan as his briefs went the way of his jeans. Take the edge off? Impossible! He felt the hot trail of tears down his temples as Duncan's touch suddenly became intimate, fingers wrapping around the straining length of his cock. He bucked into the hand that surrounded him, completely out of control.

This must have been one of the things Duncan had tried before. . . he knew exactly what to do. His grip was strong, yet gentle, and the rhythm he set was perfect. A thumb occasionally glided over the tip of his glans, making him shudder with the intensity of his response. Duncan's other hand slid low, cupping the rising weight of his sac, fingers sliding down to find the most sensitive spots. If he'd thought he was drowning in sensation before, what metaphor could he use now? All it lacked was . . . .

Moisture touched him, warm, no hot, though not as hot as his aching flesh, a thousand tiny points of sensation swept across his groin. He opened his eyes and saw the dark head bent over him, hair falling in a curtain that prevented him from seeing what his other senses told him. Again, again, surrounded, engulfed. He called on a deity three thousand years forgotten, and yielded to the tender demon that drove him.

* * *

Coherent thought returned when Methos felt the bed give beneath additional weight. Duncan was back. He hadn't even realized he had gone anywhere. How long had he been lying there feeling like he'd been struck by lightning? He couldn't bring himself to open his eyes, afraid he would find that he'd just passed out and dreamed the whole thing. He felt his shoes being untied, then removed, and his jeans and briefs were tugged the rest of the way off. That was a good sign. At least he hadn't imagined someone taking his clothes half off.

A hand urged him onto his side, a warm, naked body curled up against him, and a thick softness cocooned around him. He opened his eyes finally. A muscular arm rested on the comforter across his chest, and the broad, square hand that held the quilt in place was as familiar as his own. He hadn't imagined anything. He grinned, feeling the hard contours against his back, one particular hard contour a bit more noticeable than others. Time to reciprocate.

"Duncan, that was. . . ."

"Don't say it, I'll just get a swelled head," Duncan said in his ear, sounding amused.

"That's not what seems to be swelled at the moment," Methos commented drily, amazed at how normal he sounded. He didn't feel normal. He felt like singing, or maybe screaming, either of which would certainly drive MacLeod from the bed so he managed to control himself.

Duncan chuckled, and shifted slightly away. "Don't worry about me, I'm fine. But, are you okay? I think you passed out. Are you coming down with something?"

Methos shook his head. "No, I'm not sick, just so, so tired. It drains you, trying to keep up appearances, trying to pretend everything is going to be all right when you know damned well it isn't, losing the one thing that might make a difference, and in the middle of it all, having to hare off to rescue. . . ." he broke off, suddenly realizing that Duncan might not want to be reminded of the Dark Quickening.

"Rescue me, right?" Duncan sighed. "You shouldn't have had to face that too. That was the last thing you needed. But I won't say I'm not glad you did."

"I didn't mind, really. I knew I couldn't stop what was happening to Alexa, but I did have a chance to stop what was happening to you. I couldn't have lived with myself if I hadn't at least tried."

"And you might not have lived at all, for the trying," Duncan said solemnly. "Not many men would offer their life for a friend. You weren't by any chance hanging around in the Middle East a couple thousand years ago, were you?"

Methos didn't miss the reference, and laughed aloud. "Hardly, Highlander. Playing god isn't my style."

"No, but playing sacrificial lamb seems to be." Duncan said shrewdly.

Methos turned so he could see Duncan's face, and tried to think of a snappy comeback. He didn't manage it, so instead he just shrugged. "It's a life thing."

Duncan rolled his eyes in disgust. "A life thing? What the hell does that mean? Are you going to be throwing yourself between me and every idiot who wants to take my head from here on out?"

He started to lie, but couldn't, not to Duncan. He'd discovered a need in himself too deep to deny. The need to help someone. The need to be needed. He could no more keep himself from trying to help than he could just stop breathing. So instead he didn't say anything, and finally Duncan sighed.

"Methos, I can't stop you, I can only ask you not to."

"And I can't promise that."

"Which leaves us right back where we started."

"Not quite." Methos said.

Duncan smiled. "Not quite," he echoed. "I wonder what Amanda would say?"

"She'd say it was about time," Methos said with a grin.

Duncan pursed his lips and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then nodded. "I think you're right."

"I know I am. She gave me her blessing."

"She what?" Duncan demanded indignantly.

"She figured out that I was attracted to you months ago, before I met Alexa, and told me you were worth the effort."

"Why that little. . . ." Duncan broke off, and shook his head, laughing. "I'm not sure if I'm pissed or flattered." He paused a moment, then shot a significant look at Methos. "So, was she right?"

"About?"

"Me being worth it."

Methos pretended to think about it before giving an on-the-fence opinion. "The jury's still out."

Duncan snorted inelegantly. "Right. And just how many times in your life have you passed out from a blow job?"

"Okay, okay, I'll give you that," Methos conceded, trying not to smile. "But I have to see it from both sides to make a real judgment. . . giving as well as receiving."

"So, what are you waiting for?"

What was he waiting for? Permission from a dead woman. He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing Alexa's face, her smile, and her generosity. She wouldn't grudge him this. In fact, she would probably be encouraging him. He opened his eyes and studied the serious face across from his

"Not a thing," Methos said, reaching to tug the comforter from Duncan's hand, baring him.

Nude, he was impossibly perfect. Heavy, round-muscled shoulders and a broad, hard chest tapered down to a narrow waist and hips, then flared into strongly muscled thighs and calves. His golden-skinned body was lightly dusted with dark hair which thickened to surround his half-erect penis in a nest of dark curls. His beauty made Methos ache, despite having just come. He wanted him, he craved the contact of flesh on flesh, the delicious agony of penetration. He hadn't realized just how starved for contact he was until this moment. From the shadowed depths of his oldest memories, words spilled, and with them a startling revelation. He spoke them aloud, wanting to share his realization.

"'Then, from the shadows, a creature emerged. A creature such as I had never seen before, he was a most spectacular beast. Lithe and lean of body, silken hair lay on his shoulders, his torso was strong, hair covered his body. I knew this was the one shaped from clay, sculpted by Aruru, fashioned out of dust. This was Enkidu.'"

Comprehension filled the Highlander's gaze. "The epic of Gilgamesh," he said. "I've read it, along with all the other tales that seemed to tell of Immortals, back when I was still obsessed with trying to find out what we are. But Gilgamesh was mortal."

Methos knew that Duncan was thinking of the fate of Gilgamesh, who had 'possessed beauty and courage, but everlasting life was not his destiny.' Methos knew that despite the seeming inconsistency, he was Gilgamesh to Duncan's Enkidu, and he knew that Duncan knew it too. Closer than brothers, meant to be companions, meant to be lovers. He moved closer, stroking a hand down the expanse of his chest as he whispered another passage.

"'Enkidu's smell, too, was of the wild. It made me dizzy with longing. The smell of must and earth on his body, leaves and cloves on his breath, the smell of sweat on his skin, the taste of saliva on his tongue.'"

He leaned down and made the words truth, in control this time, no longer a slave to his own need. He brushed his lips across Duncan's fuller, softer ones. He parted them with his tongue, and tasted the cloves the poem spoke of, felt the silken glide of saliva as their tongues touched. He lifted his head, and moved lower, catching one of Duncan's hands in his and extending it so he could place a kiss in the shadowed well where his scent was strongest. He moved his mouth across to the flat, copper rise of a nipple and lightly scraped his teeth across it, reveling in the arching response it drew.

He traced his tongue down the line of darkness that bisected his lover's body, stopping to circle his navel before travelling on to where his fully-roused sex rose and pulsed. "_'First there was hunger, then fulfillment. Hunger again, and then new pleasures._'"

Methos held Duncan's cock in his hand, and grazed the erect shaft with his teeth, then soothed it with his tongue. Duncan moaned. Methos gave fleeting caresses, bare touches, subtle licks and breaths until Duncan's own breath came in ragged gasps. Sweat pooled on his skin as Methos tormented him with delight.

A whisper, "_'Roughness. . . ._'" then a touch. A whisper, "_'Tenderness. . . .'_" then another caress. "_'Memories. Visions, dreams and images. More memories. Pain. . . ._'" the sharp edge of teeth. "_'. . . .and compassion._'" The solace of gentle lips. "_'Move from innocence to knowledge.'_"

Duncan moaned. "Methos, please!"

Methos lifted his head from his playground and looked up at Duncan, at his clenched fists and clenched teeth, at the pleasure that showed nearly as pain on his face. "Do you burn, Highlander?" he asked in a savage hiss.

"I burn," his prey admitted.

Methos moved upward to take his mouth again, the kiss dark and nearly savage at first, then gradually gentling, melting into sensuality as he continued to caress the rigid shaft between Duncan's thighs with his hands. When he finally lifted his head, he was smiling, the hunter's wildness was gone. "_'Brother, as long as you burn, you belong to life!'_ Come to me."

He turned onto his belly, offering himself. He felt the bed shift as Duncan moved to claim his offering. He felt the touch of a hand as it skimmed down his back to rest on the curve of his buttock. Heavy thighs parting his. Hot skin against his own. Hands stroking, arousing, opening him. He let himself relax, waiting, and moaned as a finger tested him, then another, wet with saliva to ease the way. He shuddered with desire, waiting for the consummation, dying for it as Duncan drove him ever higher. Now, please, now, he thought, urging haste with his mind because his mouth could not form words. Finally, the fingers slid from him, to be replaced by velvet-steel and a gentle but irresistible pressure. With a sob of delight he yielded to that insistence, and took him deep.

He heard his would-be conqueror moan, felt him shudder, and knew the conquest was mutual. An eternity of burning stillness passed, eased, and Duncan began to rock gently above him, instinctively letting Methos set the pace by responding to every subtle shift and sigh. Somehow Duncan worked a hand beneath him and curled his fingers around the hard upthrust of Methos' rigid cock, squeezing with each thrust. The ride quickly became less tender, more urgent, as Methos dug his knees, elbows and toes into the mattress and pushed first into Duncan's hand, then back onto his shaft, his body fluid and flushed, repeating the patterns of desire in a dance older than either of them.

Nothing existed except the two of them, and the tightening spiral of desire. Methos sobbed, and spilled his release over the hand that held and tormented him, gasping as the waves of pleasure surged over and through him. A moment later Duncan released his softening penis and gripped his hips in both hands, driving deep; howling like a wolf, like Enkidu on the plains, shuddering again and again as his own pleasure peaked.

* * *

An almost-empty snifter of hundred-year-old Armangac sat next to the bed, two distinct sets of lip-marks on its rim. Though the stall had been crowded with both of them in it, the heat of their shared shower had drained away the last of their energy leaving them quiet and contemplative for the moment, with the undercurrent of mutual desire pulsing just beneath the surface. Later perhaps, or in the morning.

Duncan's book fell from his fingers and Methos studied his sleeping lover for a moment with fond amusement. Lover. Finally. Carefully he picked up the book and set it next to the snifter. He turned out the light, and as the filament dimmed and died he felt a momentary pang of sorrow and looked toward the north.

She slept there, the sleep of the just, as mortals put it, though he saw nothing of justice in it. His gaze moved to the form next to him, the bluish light from the port limning the sensual curves of mouth and cheek and throat. Tears came to his eyes and he blinked them away, reaching to pull the cover up over his shoulders.

"Sleep well, both of you," he whispered as he tucked the pillow into a more comfortable position, and closed his eyes.

* * *

_The End_

_Notes:_

_The Gilgamesh quotations are from The Initiation of the Sacred Prostitute by Bevya Rosten, an original Performance-Poem drawn from the motifs of the Epic of Gilgamesh. c. 1993 in The Union of Sex and Spirit published by Cauldron Productions._

_The quotation "Brother, as long as you burn, you belong to life" used both in the title and body of this work is from The Soul to the Body in the Berlin Papyrus, an Egyptian Middle-Period manuscript._


	2. Chapter 2

_Warning! This Story Is Rated NC-17! Contains graphic homoerotic (m/m) sexual content written in loving detail. If you can't handle that, don't read it. If you can't handle that and you read it anyway, don't complain to me. Highlander is a trademark of Rysher Entertainment, characters not used by permission. No infringement is intended. This work is not to be marketed for profit._

* * *

It was chilly and someone had taken his covers, but a line of kisses was being trailed down his back. Warm, soft, moist. . . Duncan smiled sleepily, without opening his eyes, and shifted his thigh outward to accommodate his growing erection. God, what a nice way to wake up. The kisses began to move back upward, gentle fingers brushed aside his tangled hair to bare the nape of his neck and the lips moved across there, making him shiver.

Teeth bit into his shoulder, not so hard as to hurt, just hard enough to make him draw a sharp breath. A moment later he registered the rough texture of morning stubble against his skin, and tensed. Stubble? Who the hell was he in bed with? For just a moment the only connection he could make was Russia, and Alexei Voshin. He tensed, ready to shove the other man away, then his gaze registered his surroundings and he relaxed. Paris. The barge. Methos. He relaxed, but it was too late. Methos had felt him tense, and the lips left his skin.

"Duncan?" Methos' voice sounded uncertain.

Feeling badly, Duncan turned over and smiled. "Good morning."

Uncertainty turned to confusion. "I thought- is anything wrong?"

Duncan shook his head. "Not really, just an unpleasant memory."

Methos looked at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "I see. How bad?"

"Not that bad," Duncan said, then realized it sounded like a brush off and hastily added something more reassuring, ". . .now. Don't worry about it."

Methos studied him a moment, and shook his head. "I'm not buying it, MacLeod. Give."

Duncan sighed. There would be no getting around it now. Methos was like a dog with a bone when he got fixated. "Just one of those previous experiences I mentioned."

"Involving. . .?"

Duncan tried to think of a delicate way to put it, and finally did. "The price of freedom."

Methos winced, understanding immediately. "Yours?"

"No, not mine. A shipload of mortals, in Russia."

"You never learn, do you?" Methos asked with a sigh.

Duncan looked at him with one eyebrow raised in ironic appraisal. "I know you want me to believe you wouldn't have done the same thing, but I know better. You, Mr. Oldest Immortal, are a pussycat."

"I am not!" Methos exclaimed, looking offended.

"Are too." Duncan reached to trail a finger down behind Methos' ear, making him shiver. "Bet I can make you purr."

Methos stared at him for a moment, his gaze gone hot with desire. "Bet you could, too. However, we haven't finished with this subject."

"Are you sure about that?" Duncan asked, his fingers sliding over the long curve of one thigh.

Methos grabbed his hand and held it away firmly. "Yes, I'm sure."

Duncan shrugged. "Methos, I said not to worry about it and I meant it. It doesn't matter now, not when I know who you are. I was just half asleep before."

"Please?"

"What are you, some kind of voyeur?" Duncan snapped irritably. "I said I didn't want to talk about it."

"No you didn't." Methos pointed out stubbornly.

"Well I have now."

"Fine." Methos turned away, grabbing Duncan's robe and shrugging into it. It hung on him like a sack until he stood up and belted it. Wordlessly he went into the kitchen and began making coffee.

Duncan watched him, feeling somehow in the wrong. Why couldn't Methos just take "no" for an answer? He lay there thinking irritably about the past few minutes. Things had started out so promisingly! Damn Alexei anyway. Duncan closed his eyes and could almost feel his presence. It was strange, last night he had remembered only his half-drunken, rather fumbling explorations with Brian Cullen, and hadn't once thought of Voshin. Now that seemed like all he could think about.

"This is stupid." Methos announced, setting down the bag of coffee. "Duncan, please, if you don't tell me, how can I know what not to do?"

Duncan opened his eyes and stared across the room at him. "What do you mean?"

As Methos padded back over, Duncan stared at his bare feet, thinking that they made Methos look absurdly vulnerable. He squatted down beside the bed and put a hand on Duncan's shoulder.

"Look, it's clear to me that something bad happened to you, something you equate with what I was doing this morning. I don't want to stir up bad memories, I know what that's like. Just tell me so I can do whatever I can to keep it from happening. Were you raped?"

Duncan felt as though Methos had just slapped him, his breath left him in a gasp. He'd never hinted, never said a word. How did he know? After a moment he got his wits together enough to shake his head. "No, not. . . not exactly."

Methos stared at him, his gaze steady and troubled. "There is no maybe, Duncan, either you were or you weren't."

Duncan flopped back against the pillows and put an arm across his eyes. "It's not that simple. I can't call it rape. It might have been coerced, but I didn't exactly. . . hate it."

There was dead silence for a moment, then he felt fingers against his cheek. "Duncan, if it was coerced, it was rape. It doesn't matter if he was able to make you feel something. . . that's just a matter of involuntary responses. Do you know how many rape victims say exactly what you just said? That it wasn't rape just because the rapist knew how to make the nerves work?"

Duncan made a shrugging motion, unable to trust his voice. Methos might call it rape, but he knew better. Damn, he could almost hear that rough, insinuating voice instructing him, he could almost feel the shameful arousal that had risen in him as he had executed those instructions. He'd kept telling himself that it was for a good cause, that he didn't really want to do it, that he wasn't enjoying it-

"Damn it, Duncan! Stop it. Do you hear me?" Methos was shaking him by the shoulders. "Look at me!"

Duncan broke his grip and rolled away, sitting up again, rubbing his face with both hands, which conveniently hid his expression as he got his emotions under control. Finally he took a deep breath and looked up. "You don't understand, Methos. Until I realized he had betrayed me- us, I almost still wanted him. If things had been different, well, like I said, it was coerced, but only partly. He was very charismatic, and damn it, I was attracted to him even though at the same time I was repelled. In a weird way it's kind of flattering, to have someone want you enough to blackmail you for it."

Methos stared at him, shaking his head. "My God, MacLeod. . . how long have you been running around thinking this was your fault? When did this happen?"

"Nineteen-thirty-eight." The year was very clear in his mind. Too clear.

"Shit," Methos said, disgustedly. "Nearly sixty years, and I bet you've never told a soul, have you?" Duncan shook his head, and Methos moved around to grab both his hands, staring earnestly into his face. "Duncan, what happened to you was no different from - I think they call it date rape these days. Just because you were interested doesn't mean that what he did was right, or that you somehow asked for it!"

"How the hell would you know?" Duncan snapped. "You've never been there!" Duncan flung at him, yanking his hands from Methos' grip. Standing up, he drew the sheet around himself as he stomped over to stare out of the port at the gray, dreary winter day as if he held it personally responsible for his discomfort.

Methos was quiet for a long time, long enough that Duncan began to get uneasy, then finally he spoke, his voice peculiarly flat. "Oh, yes, I have. Too many times." He stood up, and dropped the robe onto the bed. "You remember when I told you I didn't remember my life before my first Quickening? Well, that was a lie. I remember it all too well, though I wish to God I didn't. Look at me, MacLeod, and imagine what I looked like when I was a boy. Gods, I lost my virginity to a man nearly a quarter century before I lost it to a woman, and nobody asked me if I wanted to. I was born a slave, and for those of my class, asking was a nicety not much bothered with."

Duncan turned, stricken to the core. "Methos. . ."

In a hard voice, the other Immortal cut him off. "After awhile, you learn to enjoy it, because it's better than the fear and the pain. I know exactly what you felt, I know exactly what you feel. Do you want to know how I died the first time?"

Horror flooded Duncan at the implication, he crossed the room in two strides, placing his hand on the bare, goose-fleshed arm. "Methos, I. . . ." he began, trying to find some way to express what he was feeling.

Methos jerked his arm out of Duncan's grip. "Leave me the hell alone, MacLeod! And don't ever assume that I don't know what I'm talking about."

He stalked over to where his duffle bag lay and grabbed clothes, seemingly at random. He pulled his jeans on without bothering with briefs, and yanked a sweatshirt over his head. He stopped and looked blankly around the room for a moment, then shook his head and stuffed a few trailing items back into the bag and cinched it closed.

Duncan watched, shocked into immobility, as Methos' shouldered the bag and his long strides covered the distance to the door. Then he was gone, not even bothering to close the door behind him. Duncan started to sit down, still dazed, and his eyes lit on the worn running shoes next to the bed. Methos had gone out barefoot, and there was snow on the ground. Somehow that broke through his paralysis. Clutching the sheet around himself, he ran after Methos, and made it to the boarding ramp before he hit a patch of ice and went down like a ton of bricks. His head hit the deck and he blacked out for a moment, only to come back to himself with a sensation of flying.

"Damn it, MacLeod! You need a keeper!"

He opened his eyes, flailing, just as he came into contact with a firm surface. After a moment he realized that Methos had just pulled him back from where he'd been about to slide off the ramp into the river. Methos lifted Duncan's head to inspect the point of impact.

Duncan winced and tried to pull away. "Ouch, that hurts!"

"I'm sure it does, but you'll live." Methos let him go, but carefully, easing his head back down.

"Of course I'll live, I'm an Immortal!" Duncan snapped, then fell silent, staring up at Methos, who stared back down at him.

Slowly one corner of the older Immortal's mouth began to turn up, and he shook his head. "Gods, we're quite a pair, aren't we? Which one's Laurel and which one's Hardy?"

Duncan chuckled, intense relief washing through him as he realized he'd been forgiven, without even having asked for it. "Methos, I'm sorry. I just didn't think."

"One of your many failings, MacLeod, but as they are legion I've given up trying to fix them all. Besides, I'm afraid I overreacted a bit myself."

"I really am sorry."

"So am I."

Duncan reached up and grabbed the strings that cinched the hood of Methos' sweatshirt, and pulled him down for a kiss. Methos gave it, then straightened. "Come on, it's freezing out here. You may be a masochist, but I'm not. Oh, bloody hell. . . ."

"What?" Duncan demanded, trying to follow the other man's gaze.

Methos nodded at a figure who stood, staring at them from the embankment. "I just hope to God that's not a Watcher, or I'm going to have a devil of a time explaining what I was doing here! Especially with you in a sheet, and me in bare feet, not to mention that kiss."

Duncan chuckled. "It would certainly spice up my chronicle, that's for sure."

"Trust me, MacLeod, it's spicy enough as it is," Methos said drily as he helped him to his feet. "However, I was more concerned with not losing my place in the Watchers than with enhancing your reputation as a Don Juan."

"Aren't you getting a little tired of playing the eternal graduate student anyway?"

Methos shrugged as he picked up his duffel. "Some days yes, some days no. I find it useful camouflage. Watch it there, you're going to give the lady an eyeful. . . or was that your intention?"

Duncan settled the sheet more securely around himself, feeling grateful that years of kilt-wearing had taught him how to move in a wrapped garment without giving the audience any more of a show than necessary. Besides, If there was a Watcher around, this whole incident could have been captured on film. The thought of his bare behind being pinned up on some Watcher's bulletin board, or worse yet, scanned in and posted to some website on the Internet was a bit disconcerting.

They made their way back inside the barge, and Methos set about lighting a fire in the fireplace while Duncan dressed. As he buttoned his jeans, he glanced at Methos who had sat down and was rubbing his feet.

"So, my chronicle's spicy?" he asked nosily. "Joe's never let me look at them. . . . well, except for one."

"Spicy compared to some, tame compared to others," Methos equivocated.

"Like whose?"

"Oh, I'd rather not say."

"Why not?"

"Because, I'd be giving away the source of all the romance novels I've been writing. You didn't really think that being a lowly researcher for the Watchers paid all the bills, did you?"

Duncan stared at him, not sure for a moment if he was joking or not. "You're not serious!"

Methos widened his eyes innocently. "Oh, but I am."

"But Methos, you can't do that!" Duncan exclaimed, aghast.

Methos shrugged. "Why not? What's the worst that could happen? Someone sue me for plagiarism?"

"Methos, those are people's lives!"

"So? They're all dead anyhow. Come on, MacLeod, you're as bad as Joe! I promise I won't write about you. . . anymore."

Duncan was about to give his friend a very large helping of his mind when he realized that this time he was joking. He wadded up his erstwhile toga and threw it at him. "Considering your long history, I'm surprised you're not writing about you."

Methos fielded the wet linen deftly. "Oh, I did that for awhile. Reincarnation novels were big in the sixties and early seventies. But I got bored with me."

"I know, I know. You're 'just a guy.'" Duncan said, remembering something Joe had told him.

Methos shrugged. "Well, I am."

Duncan snorted. "Weren't you going to make coffee?"

Methos tugged a nonexistent forelock. "Yes sir, I will, sir. After my feet are no longer in danger of frostbite, that is."

Duncan knelt in front of him and picked up one foot, placing the sole against his chest. Methos hadn't been kidding, his feet were ice-cold. He felt disoriented as he thought about what Methos had revealed to him. Seeing him as a boy, as a victim, he shuddered. "I don't understand how you can be so casual about what happened to you," he said as he chafed cold flesh between his hands.

Methos sighed. "Like I said, you can learn to find pleasure in just about anything, in order to keep from feeling pain. It's the same way with acceptance. You learn it because you have to."

Duncan shuddered, imagining what this man must have gone through in his life. It made him sick, especially after last night. "Methos, God. . . how could you let me?"

Methos pulled his foot away and leaned down to frame Duncan's face in his hands. "You did nothing that I didn't desire, Highlander. Feel no guilt, don't make it ugly. It was too beautiful to be ugly. Duncan, it's not the same! I know that, and you have to know it too! What we gave each other has nothing at all to do with what others might have taken from us by force."

Duncan took a deep breath and nodded, taking that into himself, accepting it, part of it, anyway. The nausea cleared. "Methos, what happened to me was nothing. I can't even believe I was complaining about it!"

Methos rolled his eyes with a sigh of disgust. "Damn it, Duncan, haven't you heard a word I've been saying to you?" I didn't tell you that to make you feel sorry for me! I did it so you would realize that I understand! Don't you get it? Degree doesn't matter! If you were coerced into having sex, it was rape. Period. The end."

"It wasn't even sex, really. . . not. . . ." he stopped, suddenly embarrassed. "It was just fooling around. You know. "

"It doesn't matter if it was a hand job, a blow job, or full out penetration, it was still sexual assault."

Duncan sighed, frustrated by his inability to make Methos understand. Methos looked just as frustrated. They sat in silence for a moment, then suddenly Methos looked up, his eyes narrowed.

"I know who it was."

"Who what was?"

"It was Voshin, wasn't it?"

"How did you know that?" Duncan asked, amazed.

"You said Russia, 1938, who else would it be?"

"Did you know him?"

"Not directly, but I know his patterns, and I just remembered what he did to you, the public version, anyway. You weren't the first or last to fall into his trap. It felt good, didn't it?"

"What?" Duncan gasped, rattled. He'd already admitted that, but it sounded so different on Methos' lips.

"Killing him. It felt good." Methos' eyes grew distant, and a chilling smile curved his mouth. "Revenge, and quickening, rolled into one. God, it was like coming, only a million times better. I'd never felt anything half as good."

It had taken only seconds for Duncan to realize that Methos wasn't talking about Alexei Voshin. He was talking about something else, something much farther in the past. His own past.

"For years, more than I could count, I kept looking for that, only to be disappointed. Finally, thank the Gods, I realized I never would find it, that I didn't want to find it, because it the only way to get it would be to put myself in the hands of someone like him, and let it happen all over again. What I felt was the power of hate. I never want to feel that again."

Duncan shivered, knowing exactly what Methos was talking about, not only from Voshin, but from much more recently. There had been elements of that same vengeful erotic madness in the Dark Quickening. No wonder Methos had understood, had known what to do. Duncan wanted to take his friend, his lover, into his arms and soothe away the horrific memory of that time, but Methos seemed too far away. It was as if all the millennia that separated their births had built an impenetrable wall between them. For all of Methos' assurances that it was behind him, Duncan knew that Methos' was suffering from more than the cold.

"Methos," Duncan said his name quietly, and with a depth of feeling that surprised him.

Methos started as if he'd been asleep, and went white as his eyes met Duncan's. "I just got lost, didn't I?"

Duncan nodded. "It's okay, it happens sometimes. It's not like I've never done it"

"I'm sorry."

Duncan shook his head, smiling. "Enough's enough, Methos! If we don't put a stop to this now, we're going to spend all day apologizing to each other!"

The twinkle was back suddenly. "Well, I can think of some good ways to make up."

Duncan stared at him, amazed at the transition. How did he manage it? From hell to heaven in three seconds. Zero to sixty in five had nothing on Methos.

"After you 'fooled around' as you put it, he wasn't satisfied, was he? He waited for you to fall asleep and tried to take you from behind." Methos asked, out of the blue. "That's why you reacted like you did."

The shock stole Duncan's breath. When he finally recovered it, he swore. "Damn it, Methos! Can you read my mind? You can't tell me you read that in my chronicle! There was no Watcher there!"

Methos shook his head. "I'm not reading your mind. Just human. . . or should I say Immortal, nature."

Duncan suddenly became aware that Methos was shivering almost uncontrollably. Concerned, he pulled him to his feet. "Get back in bed, you're half frozen. I'll make the coffee."

"What, no beer?" Methos joked as he headed for the bed.

"I'll put a shot of brandy in the coffee," Duncan said, rolling his eyes. "Have you ever considered joining one of those twelve-step groups?"

"I don't need a twelve-step group. In fact, I don't need beer, or brandy, or coffee either."

Duncan stopped on his way to the kitchen and looked back at Methos. His back was turned as he stripped off his clothes, then he sat down and started to slide under the covers. As he did, he looked up at Duncan in a quick, almost shy motion. What Duncan saw on his friend's face went straight to his gut like a sword thrust. He knew what he needed, and it had nothing to do with food. He didn't hesitate. He was in the bed in seconds, reaching to hold Methos, to try to still the shivers that racked him, to give him his own warmth. As he cradled the long, lean form against him, he let his fingers stroke soothingly across his face. When the shudders began to ease, he spoke.

"You were upset that I had never talked to anyone about what happened, but you haven't either, have you?"

Methos shook his head. "Who could I tell?" he whispered. "Who would have believed me?"

"I would, tell me."

Methos ducked his head closer into the hollow of Duncan's shoulder. "Not now, I can't right now. Maybe sometime when I'm not such a wreck."

Duncan nodded, knowing that need. "I'll be there, just let me know."

Methos sighed, and settled in closer, burrowing in search of the heat Duncan radiated. "You know, you're the only person I've ever met who really means that when they say it."

"I always mean what I say," Duncan said, not really grasping his implication.

Methos pulled back a little to look at his face, and he shook his head in apparent incredulity. "I know, and what amazes me is that you don't have the slightest idea how rare that is!" He was quiet for a moment, then he spoke again. "I still want to get through this with you, Duncan. I want you to tell me what happened. Can you?"

Duncan thought about it for a moment, and finally sighed. "I guess so. It just seems so damned insignificant. I needed help, Alexei was in a position to supply it. His price for helping me was sex. It seemed like a pretty trivial price to pay for saving so many lives, so I agreed- with some reservations. I did make it clear that there were some things I wouldn't do."

He stopped talking for a moment, trying to remember the exact actions and emotions that night had held, and a sudden understanding came to him. "You know, it wasn't so much the sex that was the problem. If it had just been fucking, I could have handled it. Hell, I've been paid for my services before, it's not that big a deal. But that wasn't it at all. He didn't just want to have me, he wanted to own me, to control me. Worse, he really thought I would want him, when all I wanted was to be out of there. He treated me like a thing, instead of like a person, and honestly thought I would enjoy it! It was. . . ." Duncan closed his eyes, controlled his rising nausea, and groped for a lighter ending. "Well, let's just say that I certainly held different views about the lot of women from that night on."

"Earlier, when I guessed about Voshin, you asked if I'd read your mind. He did try to go past your boundaries, didn't he?"

Duncan nodded. "Exactly like you said. Fortunately he hadn't expected me to put up a fight, and I was stronger than he was. When he met me at the docks later, I thought he must have blown it off and decided to help me anyway. After all, he did know the rules going in, and I thought he must have been embarrassed to have tried to break them."

With a humorless laugh, Duncan shook his head. "Talk about projection! I still thought everyone had a sense of honor, even though I'd had the opposite lesson beaten into me a hundred times already. For a few moments I thought it would be all right, but as soon as he kissed me I knew. Like the kiss of Judas, he betrayed me with it, and there wasn't a damned thing I could do about it. That was the worst thing, Methos. Those people died because of me. Because I was too damned selfish to just give him what he wanted."

Methos sighed deeply. "Duncan, have you ever heard of blaming the victim?"

"Of course, but I wasn't. . . ."

"Oh yes you were. Absolutely."

"Those people were the victims, Methos! They trusted me, and I betrayed them!"

Methos stared directly into his eyes. "No, they trusted you and you did your damnedest to try to help them!" Every word was precise, bitten off. "You did everything, right down to sacrificing your own integrity and selling your body! Voshin betrayed them! Not you!"

"If I had just done what he asked. . . ."

"If you had just done what he asked, the outcome would have been the same. Voshin didn't care about them, he just used them to get what he wanted from you!"

"You can't know that!" Duncan said, desperately trying to hold onto his certainty. "How do you know that he wouldn't just have let them go?"

"Because it wasn't in his nature. He would have killed them anyway, just to see the look on your face."

Duncan closed his eyes and turned away, unable to accept Methos' words.

Methos swore softly, and muttered something under his breath. "Duncan, do you remember Loren Gale?"

Duncan racked his brains. The name sounded vaguely familiar, yet didn't stir enough of a memory for him to place it. Finally shook his head. "No, should I?"

"Not really, I don't think you ever met."

Duncan waited, puzzled, but sure that there was some reason why Methos would have brought her up. Finally his patience was rewarded.

"She was Joe's lady. Durgan killed her."

That was it! The connection was made instantly. "Yes, I remember now. What about her?"

"Joe stood outside her door and watched her die."

Duncan flinched from that image, but was still perplexed. "And. . . ?"

"How do you think he felt?"

"Helpless, angry, and afraid." Duncan didn't have to imagine. He remembered.

"And maybe guilty?" Methos prompted.

"It wasn't his fault!" Duncan said, leaping to Joe's defense. "Besides, even if he had been able to break through the door in time, Durgan would just have killed him too!"

"Exactly," Methos said, sounding smug.

Duncan refrained from smacking Methos a good one, and lay there silently, trying hard not to absorb what he'd just said. Several minutes passed without either of them speaking, then Methos finally broke the silence.

"Duncan?" He sounded like a kid trying to wheedle an ice cream cone out of an adult.

"What?" Duncan snapped irritably, not wanting to hear any more on the subject at the moment.

"I'm cold."

Despite himself, he felt a grin trying to form. Methos was almost as good at pseudo-petulance as Amanda. "What, still?"

"Mmmhmm."

He feigned a deep sigh. "I suppose you expect me to do something about it."

"It's only fair, since it's your fault."

"My fault!" Duncan exclaimed, wondering what happened to "we."

"Isn't everything your fault?" Methos said with perfect innocence. "Acid rain, global warming, the last election, Middle-Eastern terrorism, war in Eastern Europe, you name it. All Duncan MacLeod's fault."

Duncan could feel something building inside him. . . he wasn't too sure if it was rage or amusement, or maybe a bizarre combination of both. "That's enough, Methos."

"I don't think so. What else can we blame on you? Inflation? British cooking?"

"Methos. . . ." he said warningly.

"High cholesterol, bell-bottoms, platform shoes. . . ."

"Methos!" Amusement was beginning to get the upper hand.

". . . .leisure suits, day-timers, the stock-market. . . ."

"Enough!" Duncan roared, trying desperately not to giggle. It would ruin his image. "You've made your point!"

Methos peered at him. "Have I?"

"Yes."

"It's about time. God, you are one stubborn Scot, Highlander!"

"I am, aren't I?"

"You don't have to sound so bloody proud of it! It's a serious character flaw."

"And you wouldn't have me any other way."

Methos looked thoughtful. "Well, just a touch less might be nice, but you're right, I wouldn't want it to go away completely. If you weren't stubborn you wouldn't get yourself into scrapes you need my help to get out of, and then what would I do for entertainment?"

Duncan grinned. "I can think of a few things."

Methos grinned back, but suddenly his grin faded. "Duncan, I don't ever want to remind you of Alexei."

"God, what a thing to say! You don't, not at all, not in any way."

"And you'll let me know if anything I do bothers you?"

Duncan reached over and touched his face lightly. "Nothing you could do would bother me, Methos. This is different."

Methos sagged a little against the bed, closed his eyes and let his breath out in a long, soft whistle. "Thank God."

"No, thank you."

Methos smiled, but didn't open his eyes. "Well, I know I'm good but don't you think calling me 'god' might be seen as a bit presumptuous?"

Duncan wondered if killing Methos for that would be considered justifiable homicide, and decided against it. After all, he'd just come back and be as insufferable as ever. Perhaps playing along was a better solution.

"Actually, before I assign you godhood, I'd like to see you prove it."

His riposte was met with silence, and startled, he had to look to see why. Methos was staring at him with a speculative look on his face. A slow, sensual smile began to form, and Duncan wondered what he was thinking. He didn't have to wait long for the answer.

"It's been a very long time since I was given that title, but I do remember how I earned it, and it was only partially due to someone having seen me take a Quickening. Care for a demonstration?"

"Ah. . . what exactly does it involve?"

"Don't worry, you'll survive."

"Yeah, but will I enjoy it?" Duncan asked, only mostly joking.

"Oh, yes. I'll make sure of that." Methos' words were a silky promise.

Duncan had no problem believing that at some point in the past, Methos might have been regarded as a god. Probably a lot of Immortals had been considered such. However, there were an awful lot of potential candidates for Methos to have been an avatar of. With any luck, whichever one it was had been one of the nice ones, few though they were. It wouldn't hurt to ask. "Would you mind telling me just what they called you?"

He smiled. "I had many names."

"Any that I would recognize?"

"Probably. "

"Did any of them happen to have 'The Destroyer' as part of the title?"

Methos laughed out loud, a fairly rare occurrence. "Not a single one. Relax, Duncan. You know I would never hurt you."

Duncan did know that. Even under the most extreme provocation, Methos had never hurt him, though he had scared the hell out of him a couple of times. He nodded to let Methos know that he agreed, and was rewarded by a smile as the other man rolled away and sat up.

"Is there anything at all you don't want me to do, any touch, any place, any action, anything you have even the slightest doubt about? This won't work unless you trust me, completely."

Duncan shook his head.

"I need to hear the words, Duncan," Methos said gravely.

Duncan realized why he needed that, and thought it over carefully before replying. "I trust you. There's nothing you can do that I wouldn't accept."

The look of relief on Methos face was shattering. Without a word, he reached down and began to unfasten Duncan's jeans, his movements deft and surprisingly non-erotic. Duncan lifted his hips so he could slide them off, then lay back. Methos got up, walked into the bathroom, and returned a few moments later with a towel-wrapped bundle under his arm. He spread the towel on the bed and gestured toward it.

"Turn over, on that. Just lie there, as relaxed as you can be, as comfortable as possible. let your mind go blank. You might even try to sleep, if you can."

Duncan complied as well as he could, still wondering what Methos was up to. A dozen possibilities crossed his mind, all of them new to him, and all of them as arousing as hell. He pillowed his face on his arm, and tried not to think of anything. He heard Methos moving around a bit, then after a dozen breaths, Duncan felt him settle onto the bed. For several long moments he waited in tense anticipation. Nothing happened. He glanced back over his shoulder, and saw his friend sitting cross-legged, his hands resting on his knees, cupped upward, his eyes closed. His lips were moving silently as if he chanted some inaudible mantra. With a little surprise, Duncan realized his pose was indeed a yogic one. Interesting. He put his head back down on his arm, and settled in to wait.

Some time later, he wasn't sure how long, he came slowly up from a light doze to feel the warmth of a hand against his lower back, a flat, gentle pressure just at the tailbone. The touch was so light as to almost be nonexistent, yet the warmth that hand radiated was astonishing. Gradually, the sensation became more of a tingle. No, not a tingle. He had no words for it. He felt as if he were being filled with light. Glowing golden threads were sliding into his skin, penetrating deep into his body, seeking out something- something- what? They didn't hurt, in fact, the sensation was so far from pain as to be ecstatic.

Duncan's whole body felt incredibly warm, though he knew the air in the barge was chilly. A bead of sweat slid down his side, leaving a trail of coolness behind it. Another. It tickled. He suddenly wanted to laugh, but didn't dare move for fear of interrupting the experience. Instead, he held the laughter inside himself, and somehow it wove itself through the golden threads, sparkling iridescent and silver. He was sure if he opened his eyes, his skin would be glowing from the inside, but part of him was afraid to look. The threads became roots spreading throughout his body, and a vine that ran along his spine. It was the strangest sensation he'd ever felt.

Methos moved his hand a few inches higher, and then he felt lips against the base of his spine. Somewhere inside him, directly below that kiss, it seemed that a flower of scarlet fire bloomed. Duncan was instantly erect, achingly aroused. Scents were suddenly more acute, he could smell the fire in the fireplace across the room, the open bag of coffee on the counter, the subtle complexity of Methos, and his own excitement. Where Methos' hand rested, a new sensation unfurled, brilliant, acidic, and confusing. Methos' hand again moved upward a few inches so his lips could touch the spot where his hand had been. Duncan's mouth flooded with tastes. He could actually taste the scent of the coffee he'd smelled moments earlier, and the subtle tang of woodsmoke in the air. He remembered the sea-bitter flavor of Methos' surrender as if it were fresh on his tongue.

Touch-then-kiss became a pattern, moving higher each time. When the touch centered above his waist Duncan found his eyes opening to a world of intense colors, as if everything were highlighted by brilliant golden sunlight, though he knew the day was overcast and the room dim. As the center of his back was marked with a kiss, his body exploded with perception, every nerve ending excruciatingly sensitized. The intensity was almost painful until the touch moved to the back of his neck. He had begun to expect some change with each shift of Methos' hand, so this time he wasn't surprised when he realized he could hear the subtle creak of the barge as it rode the moving water, the sound of Methos' breathing and heartbeat, steady and utterly even, though his own heartbeat was like thunder in his ears.

The next caress nearly undid him. As Methos hand moved to the top of his head and his lips settled against the base of his skull, he was suddenly filled with such a sense of loneliness and aching need that it literally, physically hurt. He felt tears burning on his face, heard them slide down his skin, tasted them on his lips, even smelled the salt in them, yet strangely it seemed only to increase his arousal. Finally, Methos' hand lifted and his lips touched the crown of his head, an incredible wave of connection and love swept through him.

The sense of melding was at once painful and ecstatic. On a purely physical level he felt Methos stroking between his buttocks, fingers slick with some kind of lubricant. It never even occurred to him to object. A finger slid inside, and he moaned at the unfamiliar sensation, and the delight. He waited, breathless and needy, as Methos simultaneously prepared and pleasured him, then to his dismay the fingers were withdrawn. Before he could object, another pressure began. He had no thought other than surrender as he was gently but irresistably invaded. In his ear he heard Methos voice, the barest whisper;

"We are one."

The words sent him hurtling over the edge of control and into the abyss of desire. He knew he was sobbing, panting, his body filled and overflowing with pleasure; streaming light and liquid, and it didn't matter at all. He felt cocooned, surrounded, engulfed and pervaded; his sense of self nearly lost in the entirely new being he had just become.

* * *

Hold on, hold on. . . Methos thought, desperately trying not to follow Duncan's lead. There was so much more possible if he could just stay in control, but the temptation was overwhelming as he felt Duncan come in his arms. It had been too long since he'd practiced any kind of discipline in sex. For that matter, it had been too long since he'd had sex, period. Alexa had been too fragile for much of anything, though she had loved to have him hold her. Between the extended abstinence and the intensity of what he had just given, he couldn't help himself. As Duncan peaked, so did he.

It was as good as he'd remembered, no, better. There was so much more pleasure when love was involved. For so long now, it seemed that for him love and sex were completely divorced from each other. He could have one, or the other, not both. But not anymore. Gradually the tremors slowed, then ceased, and his breathing slowed to something like a normal level. Finally Duncan took a deep breath and let it out in a shuddering sigh. Methos tensed, filled with the almost overpowering fear that as soon as Duncan was fully cognizant, he would start to fight.

He didn't. Methos could feel it the moment full realization came, because a single shiver went through the body beneath his. But Duncan didn't fight. He didn't even really tense up. Methos waited for him to speak, and when he didn't, he got concerned.

"Are you all right?" he asked softly.

Duncan shivered again, and Methos was so close he could hear him swallow. "Fine," he finally said. "I'm fine."

Methos wasn't convinced. A sudden sinking feeling made him withdraw, though he took care to do it gently. Usually there were two points at which pain could outweigh pleasure. He'd passed the first easily, this was the second. To his relief, Duncan didn't flinch as their bodies separated, but as he started to sit up, Duncan turned and caught his hand.

"No, don't. Stay here, just give me a minute, things are still kind of wild. What the hell did you just do to me?"

Methos felt suddenly insecure. "I'm sorry! I just wanted to give you something to replace your fear. I didn't mean to hurt. . . ."

"Methos." Duncan cut his babbling off firmly but gently.

"What?"

"It was incredible."

He sounded almost awestruck. Pleasure replaced insecurity instantly. "Oh. Good."

"You could say that. What about you?"

"No less."

Duncan smiled wryly. "Give me a break, Methos. I don't know anything like that. It can't possibly have been as good for you."

Methos shook his head. "No, you're wrong. To give what I gave, I had to be in the same state at each step. We were one, in all ways."

Duncan absorbed that, and nodded. After a little bit, he spoke again. "Are you going to tell me what that was?"

"Just a little something I picked up in the East. A bit like tantric yoga, a bit like shiatsu."

Duncan snorted. "Methos, I've done yoga, and I've had shiatsu. That was neither."

"True, it's much older than either, but elements of it survive in both disciplines."

Duncan lifted a hand and stared at it, eyes still slightly dilated. "Things are still. . . different, more intense. How long does it last?"

"It depends on the individual. With practice it can stay with you for days."

"With practice? I can't imagine doing that again, it would kill me!"

"So?" Methos asked in amusement. "What's the problem?"

Duncan chuckled, shaking his head. "Okay, you've earned it." His voice was warm with amusement, and something else. "What exactly would you like me to call you? 'God' seems kind of impersonal."

For a moment Methos was completely blank, unable to figure out what the hell Duncan was talking about. Finally it came to him, exactly what had made him attempt something that he hadn't done in centuries. That challenge. He grinned. "The first name they used would mean nothing to you, but much later he became Dionysus. I'd rather you just call me Methos, though. I like the way you say it."

There was a short silence, then Duncan shook his head, laughing again. "Dionysus? No wonder you have a thing about alcohol!"

Enjoying Duncan's amusement, Methos risked more dignity for his sense of humor. "So, I suppose I shouldn't tell you the other god I was occasionally called upon to impersonate?"

"Oh, this should be good. Who was it?"

"Are you up on your mythology?"

"Just tell me!"

"All right, all right! Don't get your knickers in a twist! It was Hymen."

Duncan's gaze went distant as he mentally reviewed a list of classical deities. Methos knew the minute he made the connection, because his eyes widened, then his grin did as well. Seconds later he was laughing full-out, no stops, clutching the towel against his stomach as he attempted to remember how to breathe. Methos had expected that reaction, so he just waited patiently for the younger man to get himself under control. Finally he managed it, and he held up his hands, fingers forming a small rectangle in the air.

'"I'm going to have business cards made up for you. 'Methos the Immortal, aka Dionysus, offering Drunken Revelling and Debauchery, aka Hymen, God of the Marriage Bed, specializing in Defloration of Virgins.'"

Methos pretended to polish his nails on his chest. "Well, I am rather good at it."

"Oh, and modest too!"

He shrugged. "Who needs modesty when you have talent?"

"Well, I suppose there's no arguing that, you certainly did well with me. But wait a minute. . . last night you told me that playing god wasn't your thing."

"Well, it all depends on the god," Methos temporized. "The one you were asking about wasn't any fun. Those virgins stay virgins."

"Good point." Duncan allowed, grinning.

There was a moment of quiet, and Methos found himself wondering if this could possibly last. Could they stay this comfortable with each other, or would their respective pasts eventually come back to haunt them? He'd never had a relationship like this with another Immortal. The affairs he had indulged with other Immortals had been just that, affairs. All his true lovers had been mortals, like Alexa. Oddly, it didn't hurt so much to think of her now. The abyss of despair seemed to be closing, at last. Duncan, or rather, Sean, had been right. There was something healing about loving again after loss.

It certainly leant an interesting undercurrent to things, knowing that this lover might outlive him. After centuries of always being the one left behind, it was a strange feeling to realize that the tables could turn at any time.

"You know, I just realized something," Duncan said quietly, his voice very serious.

"What?"

"I didn't think about Alexei, not once. In fact, I didn't think of anyone else, not even Tessa, or Little Deer. It was just you, and me, and for a few moments not even that. It was like there was something, no, someone else, someone that was both of us."

Methos smiled. "That is the point of the ritual. To become one."

"I don't know how you can do that, open yourself up like that to just anyone."

Methos studied him for a moment, eyes narrowed slightly as he thought about how to respond without showing just how much that had hurt. Finally he lifted his eyebrows. "What makes you think I would do that with just anyone?"

"I. . . ." Duncan stopped. "I guess I just figured if you could do that, you would."

Methos shook his head. "Duncan, what I did was a sacrament. I've done it only a few times in my life. The first time with the master who taught it to me, after that only as part of a ritual, until you. I would have shared it with Alexa if she had been stronger, but I knew she. . . ." he closed his eyes, suddenly grief-stricken again.

Duncan looked shaken. "Methos, I'm sorry."

The words were like a balm, soothing the hurt. "It's all right."

"No, it's not! I've been trying to make things better, to help you through this like I wanted someone to help me get over Tessa, and instead I just stir up even more painful memories, and I hurt you."

"Memories are a hazard of our existence, Duncan. As for hurting me, it was only a little. Besides. . . sometimes, with some people, even pain is pleasure."

Duncan flinched. "Don't say that!"

"It's true."

"I don't want to hear it."

"Why?"

Duncan turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling, his face set and hard. "You've seen the monster I can become and you have to ask that? I'm still not sure what kept me from hurting you before. I wanted to, badly. You wouldn't believe the things I wanted to do to you, just because you were trying to help me!"

"Oh, I do know. Remember, I've been where you were. I was that lost once, and I didn't have anyone to show me the way back. It took far longer, and with far more cost. You've known some of the worst of our kind, but believe me I have no less blood on my hands. I've done things I should have been damned for, things I can't even bear to think about now." Waiting for a reaction, he saw disbelief on his lover's face and shook his head.

"I am not lying to you," he said urgently. "You wanted to know why I got involved with Alexa, even though I knew she was dying? She was special, the kind of special we find so rarely in our lives, and I loved her, and that would have been enough, but even more than that, she was good. I need that, I need goodness around me to remind me what it is, and to remind me how to be it. I needed her honesty to pull me out of all my lies. You've asked me why I don't talk about my past. Frankly, it's because I'm ashamed of so many things. Not because of what was done to me, those are things I've learned to deal with. What I'm ashamed of are the things I did myself."

Duncan reached over and pulled him close, hugging him fiercely. "Methos, who you were doesn't matter. Who you are now is what matters."

Methos tried to squirm out of his embrace, almost fighting to get free, suddenly panic-stricken by the thought that somehow that person he had once been might return. "That's just it! Sometimes. . . sometimes I'm not sure who I am anymore! I've been so many people that it blurs. I have nightmares sometimes. I'm wandering through a city as it changes year by year, asking the empty buildings 'Who am I?'"

MacLeod rolled over on top of him, holding him with his weight. "Stop fighting me, I'm trying to help!"

Methos fought harder, panting a little, and Duncan had to let him go before he hurt him. Methos lay back with a strange expression on his face, but not fighting any more.

"That's better," Duncan said. "Who are you? Whoever you are at this moment is who you are. You may be different twenty seconds later, but that person is you too. You're like a phoenix, dying each moment, and being reborn from your own ashes. Methos, this is something everyone has to deal with, mortal or immortal. It's the most basic question of our lives."

Methos put his hands over his face, hiding behind them. "Most people don't have five thousand years of personality changes to deal with."

Duncan chuckled. "True. But a god should be able to deal with something that trivial, right?"

Despite himself, Methos laughed, then resented it. "Don't try to cheer me up!" he snapped.

"Why? You like being miserable? Brooding is my forte, not yours."

That made him laugh again, as well as posing a good question. He thought about it, and decided he'd been stupid enough for one day.

"It take it back. Make me laugh whenever you feel like it." His shoulders ached where Mac had pinned him down, and he reached to rub the rising bruises with a little wince. Duncan touched one apologetically.

"Sorry, but you were the one who said pain was pleasure."

Methos shot him a dirty look. "I didn't mean it literally."

"Yes you did. And that's the other reason I didn't want to hear it. You told me that 'after awhile, you learn to enjoy it, because it's better than the fear.' That's what bothered me. I never want that to happen between us."

"It won't." Methos said with absolute certainty.

"I know that, I just wanted to make sure you did." Duncan sighed, and stretched. "I don't know about you, but I think that's about all the tough emotional issues I can deal with in one day. Shower?"

He sat up, and Methos followed suit, shaking his head. "What was it Amanda said that one time? 'Women have PMS once a month, men have it every twenty minutes?' Sometimes I think she might be right."

Duncan looked offended. "Speak for yourself!"

Methos grinned. "I was."

He stood up and headed for the bathroom. "Coming?"

Duncan nodded, following. "So, were you any other gods I should know about?"

Methos chuckled. "That information is given on a need-to-know basis only."

Duncan laughed, leaning against the wall as Methos started the shower and adjusted the temperature. He seemed to be studying him thoughtfully. "You know, you're not bad looking, for 'just a guy.'"

Methos lifted his head. "Gee, thanks, MacLeod." he said acerbically.

Duncan winked and shook his head. "After all this time I'd have thought you would have learned how to take a compliment."

"Is that what that was? I'll remember that next time."

"Do."

"Oh, and MacLeod?"

"What?"

"Do not, under any circumstances, tell Amanda anything about what we just did."

Duncan laughed, and drew an X on his chest with a finger. "Cross my heart, you have my word of honor. I wouldn't have anyway. I'm not very good at sharing."

Methos grinned, and held open the shower curtain. "Get in there, and hand me the soap."

* * *

They remade the bed after their shower, then crawled back in it, just loafing. Methos sighed and lay back, punching a pillow into a more comfortable shape behind his head. "I must be out of my mind."

"Why?" Duncan asked, only moderately curious. He knew better than most that Immortals had at least one reason to say such things.

"Do you really have to ask? God, I've gone centuries without letting anyone close, and now here I am getting involved again. First Alexa, now you. I've lost it. I'm getting senile or something."

Duncan smiled. "Methos, Immortals don't get senile."

"How do you know? Maybe we do, and it makes us easy prey so before too long we lose our heads?"

Duncan rolled over and eyed him curiously. "Given this a lot of thought, have you?"

"Some." Methos admitted. "When you're as old as I am, you sometimes wonder if there's not an upper threshold. You know, kind of like a computer- there's only so much disk space, and once that's used up, you have to start deleting files or the machine is useless."

Duncan shook his head, laughing. "So what does a quickening do, reformat our hard-drives? Come on, Methos, I don't think wanting to be close to someone is a sign of mental deterioration."

"Considering how it usually ends up, I think I do."

"And how does it usually end up?"

"With someone dead."

Apparently he was determined to be depressed. Duncan reached over to turn Methos face toward him so he could look him in the eyes. "I know this is going to sound cliche, but death is part of living. You can't keep it away by keeping people away."

Methos closed his eyes, shuttering his gaze from Duncan's. "I know, damn it, I know."

"Then stop being maudlin." Duncan studied him, waiting for him to open his eyes so he could see his true feelings in their clear olivine depths. Methos didn't oblige him. Duncan propped himself on his elbows and studied the fair, angular face opposite him. What had Methos seen, and done, in his five millennia? Once again he found himself wondering what possible interest Duncan could hold for him, what drew someone with such vast experience? He had nothing to offer, nothing to teach, nothing to give, except what he'd already given. Hopefully that was enough. The question got him thinking, though, and curiosity got the better of him.

"Methos?"

"Hmmm?"

"Is there anything you haven't done?"

That got a laugh, and he opened his eyes. "In what context?"

Duncan grinned. "What context do you think I'd be asking about while we're lounging around in bed?"

"I thought that might be what you meant. Not much. To be honest, I'm not really sure, but I suspect there are very few things I haven't done."

Duncan sighed. "I was afraid of that."

"What do you mean?"

"I guess I'm just not used to being the less experienced one."

"Be glad of it." Methos said flatly, then at Duncan's curious look, he elaborated. "There are a lot of things I've experienced that I wish I hadn't. It's too bad we can't just hibernate."

"We can."

Methos looked at him sharply. "What?"

"I met a woman who was close to your age once. She'd been in a mummy case since the time of Cleopatra. Her name was Nefertiri."

Methos looked at him as if trying to judge his sincerity. "That must be in one of your more recent chronicles. When was this?"

"Just a couple of years ago. I sensed her inside the sarcophagus and got her out."

Methos shuddered. "She'd been in a bloody box all those centuries? I'd've gone stark raving mad. Well, actually, I probably wouldn't. They suck your brains out through your nose when they put you in one of those things, so she might not have had much to go mad with!"

Duncan rolled his eyes. "Well, she certainly had all her brains, though your first guess wasn't far off," Duncan said ruefully. "Even if I didn't realize it at first."

"Nefertiri. . . Nefertiri. . . ." Methos turned the name over with his voice as if examining it. Suddenly his eyes widened and he snapped his fingers. "She was with Marcus!"

"You know Marcus?"

"Of course! We had many a campaign together, he and I, and I remember the little Egyptian bitch, too. She seduced him, then tried to gut him. She's still around?"

Duncan shook his head slowly. "No. She's not."

Methos nodded. "Marcus had to take care of her? Probably just as well. Gorgeous, but one of the most vicious people I've ever met. Reminded me a lot of Sunna."

"Who's Sunna?"

Methos shuddered, and an odd, closed-off look came over his face. "Never mind. So Marcus killed her?"

"No." Duncan said flatly. "I did."

That got his attention. He stared, stunned. "You? You killed her?"

Duncan nodded tersely, his jaw set.

"You killed a woman?" Methos said again, incredulously.

"She gave me no choice."

Methos narrowed his eyes. "You must not have slept with her."

"Oh, yes, I did."

"And you took her head?"

"Cut it out, Methos," Duncan said warningly.

"No, I want to understand this. You killed Nefertiri, but you couldn't kill Kristen? I don't get it. I just don't get it. I thought I understood you but I guess I didn't. I didn't think you could kill anyone you'd fucked. Guess I'd better watch my head," Methos said jokingly.

Thoughts of Nefertiri, Alexei, and Brian flashed through Duncan's mind. Three people he'd had sex with, three people he'd killed. Each one of them more difficult than the last. Methos' jest was too much. He lunged, pinning Methos beneath him, holding his wrists against the bed. "Don't even joke about that!"

Beneath him, Methos struggled wildly. It took Duncan several seconds to realize that the fury and terror in his eyes wasn't faked, but was very, very real. As soon as that realization hit, Duncan released him. Methos rolled away to curl up in an almost fetal position, one hand shielding his face as he struggled to bring his breathing under control.

"Methos?" Duncan asked cautiously. "You okay?"

The older Immortal nodded, drawing a deep, shaky breath. "Fine."

"No, you're not fine." Duncan paused a moment, noting the tremors that shook Methos' lean frame. "My God, are you afraid of me?"

"No!" Methos exclaimed, looking at Duncan finally. "Not you."

"What then?"

Methos sat up and pulled the comforter around himself. "I don't like being restrained."

Duncan absorbed that, and tried to put it together with what he knew of Methos, and got an answer that made him sick. "That's how you died, wasn't it. The first time?"

A long pause, followed by a sharp, jerky nod.

"I'm sorry." Duncan said, smoothing a hand over Methos hair. "I didn't know."

"You couldn't have." Methos shuddered again, and drew the blanket tighter. "I know it's stupid, I should be over it by now. I mean, this is pretty ridiculous- how long does it take? But I'm not. I can't stand to be under any kind of restraint."

"It doesn't sound stupid to me." He paused a moment, feeling awkward. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No, I don't."

Methos was quiet then, and Duncan didn't pry. He would talk when it was time. He moved over to sit where he could hold Methos, just communicating his support with his body. After a long silence, Methos spoke again.

"It wasn't just the first time. Or the first couple of times."

"What?" Duncan didn't understand. . . or perhaps didn't want to understand. Something nagged at him, trying to catch his attention.

"You'll hate me," Methos said bleakly.

"I won't hate you, Methos, I couldn't."

"You will. I'm a coward, I let him do it."

"You didn't let anyone do anything. I know you well enough to know that if something bad happened to you, it was because they had superior force. Please, tell me."

"I said it wasn't the first time, or even two. I don't even know how many times it was. I know it was four God-damned years, because I figured it out, a long, long time afterward. He was one of us, you see, and so he knew what I was long before I did. He knew that no matter what he did to me, I'd still be there for him to play with in the morning."

Duncan literally went cold. He had no illusions as to what Methos was saying. Whoever this man was, he'd killed him, over and over again, for four years. Apparently there had been some sort of sexual component to the torture as well. The idea that one of his kind could do that to another was almost beyond comprehension. His arms tightened around Methos, then he worried that he would interpret it as restraint. When there was no adverse reaction, Duncan almost sighed with relief.

"I was always a slave, but until him I'd been treated comparatively well. I knew what was expected of me, and it wasn't so bad, sometimes it was even enjoyable, Methos continued in a bizarrely conversational tone. "Unfortunately, as I got older and lost some of my boyish charm I was sold into field work. I'd been at that for about three years when Sunna sensed me and bought me. For a while he just played with me, games he made sure I would survive without. . . crossing over. I had no idea what I was. The stupid thing was that I didn't catch on even after he started killing me. I honestly thought he was responsible for bringing me back, and I worshipped him for it, even while I hated him for it. I thought he was at the least a magician, and possibly even a god!"

"That's not something to be ashamed of! How could you know any different?"

"I should have figured it out. I was a grown man, I should have been able to figure it out long before I did!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Methos! Why? What possible clues could you have had? The only information you had was what he gave you. You know what it's like for our kind! We have no idea that something like us actually exists until it happens, and even then it's hard to believe. You were deliberately misled!" He shook Methos a little in frustration. "Damn it, you tell me not to take responsibility for things that aren't my fault, and then you turn around and do the same thing?"

"All I had to do was have a little courage and I would have known sooner."

"And how do you figure that?"

"I finally found out by killing myself while he was away for several days. When I came back without his help, I knew it wasn't his doing, it was something about me. If I'd had the courage to take my own life earlier, I would have known."

Duncan made a sound of protest, but Methos went on, inexorably.

"I think I was a little insane already, and that realization put me fully over the edge."

Duncan knew that edge all too well. He now understood the full ramifications of the term "psychotic break."

"I don't remember a lot after that, not for a long time, except for killing him. That I remember." He laughed bitterly. "I didn't even know I had to take his head to really kill him. I found that out by accident. You probably don't want to know what I was doing."

Duncan could imagine. He knew what he wanted to do to the man, though he was thousands of years dead already, and it involved a degree of savagery he had only recently discovered himself capable of. Since the Dark Quickening, a smoky red haze still filled his mind when he was really angry. It took a tremendous effort of will to battle it down, and nothing he'd faced was as horrible as what Methos had gone through. He could feel it now, trying to slip out of all the hidden places in his mind to take over, to prompt him to battle-fury though he had nothing to fight.

"Methos, God. . . I know there's nothing I can do now, except tell you that I don't hate you. How could I? You managed to survive it not only sane, but a good person."

Methos shook his head and pushed Duncan away, crawling over to huddle against the headboard where Duncan couldn't easily reach him. "You don't know the things I've done. My next clear memory after killing Sunna is finding myself in a battle, or perhaps a slaughter would be a better word. I was in a small settlement, only a few buildings, huts really. There were bodies everywhere, men, women, even children. I stood over an old woman, she'd had only the grinding stone of a grain mill as a defense against the sword and dagger I carried.

"I've often wondered if she might have been an Immortal, and that her Quickening was what brought me to myself again, but I've never been sure. All I know is that I had taken her head, but then, I'd done that to most of the others too. I thought I must be part of an army, some attacking force, but finally I realized it was just me. Just me. I had done that. I had killed them all, even. . . ." his voice broke. "Even the little ones."

Duncan heard the soul-sickness in his voice, and wondered that he didn't feel it himself. Yet, for all the horror in the tale, the only thing he could think of was what Methos had told him in the aftermath of his recovery from the Dark Quickening. Over and over he had emphasized that the being of darkness had not been Duncan, not the real Duncan, but a separate personalty construct created by his mind as a response to the evil he'd absorbed. When Methos had taken Sunna's head, the other Immortal's evil had locked into all the awful things that had been done to him, and created a new being, someone as alien to Methos as that other Duncan had been to him. Alien, and yet, a part of him. There was no denying that, yet he'd kept it subdued for thousands of years, and he'd taught Duncan to do the same.

"Methos, that wasn't you," he said gently, laying a hand on Methos's shoulder, the only part of him not covered by the blanket.

"It was," Methos replied, his voice rough with sorrow.

"It wasn't you any more than the Duncan who tried to kill Richie, and beat up that man, raped his wife, and killed Sean was me. You taught me that yourself, and if you deny it, you deny me the only thing that's kept me going since then."

His words were met with silence. The silence lengthened, attenuated, became like a living thing between them, strands of silver webbing, waiting for something to become entangled in its sticky threads. Methos turned toward him, his eyes like night.

"Duncan. . . ." he said, but no more.

Duncan stared at him, willing him to see the truth, to understand, to accept.

Methos closed his eyes, swallowed, bit his lip. "I. . . ." he said, then stopped.

"It wasn't you." Duncan insisted again.

"It wasn. . . ." he couldn't finish.

"Wasn't you." Duncan finished for him. "It wasn't you. It wasn't the real you, not the Methos you created out of the ashes of the old. Why can't you see it's as true for you as it is for me?"

"To paraphrase an old saying, it's easier to give than to receive," Methos said finally. "I can forgive you much more easily than I can forgive myself."

"How long has it been since you did those things, or anything like that, for that matter? Was that the last time?"

Methos nodded.

"And that was, what. . . four thousand nine-hundred and some-odd years ago?"

The older Immortal nodded again.

Duncan sighed, frustrated, and leaned forward to frame Methos' face between his hands, their noses nearly touching as he spoke evenly, and carefully. "You don't need to forgive yourself Methos. It. Wasn't. You. Do you understand? If it was anyone, it was Sunna. It was your first Quickening, and what he'd already done to you would have driven anyone out of their mind. With those two things in combination. . . well, it's a wonder that you recovered at all!"

Methos glared at him. "Damn you, Duncan, do you have any idea how irritating it is to have you always be right?"

Duncan grinned. "Ha! So you admit it!"

Methos sighed. "I can admit it from now till doomsday, but that doesn't change how I feel about it."

"I know. Believe me, I know. What I did. . . ." he shook his head. "Well, suffice it to say I have as hard a time forgiving myself as you do. So we're both broken. I guess as the saying goes, it takes one to know one. How old were you?"

Methos blinked, looking puzzled. "When?"

"When Sunna bought you."

"Ah."

Methos' tone told Duncan he understood exactly what he was really asking. It wasn't an uncommon question for an Immortal. How old were you when you died the first time?

"I was twenty-three when he bought me. I think I'd been with him a few months when he. . . ." Methos swallowed. "When I became what we are."

Duncan was surprised. "Twenty three? You look older."

"Why, thank you." Methos smiled ironically. "But you're right, I do look older. I always did, at least from pretty early on. Part of it was growing up the way I did, part is having fair skin and living my mortal years long before sunscreen was invented. Other things probably contributed as well."

Other things. . . like being tortured, Duncan thought. That was long known to accelerate the aging process. He shuddered, wishing he could have been there to help, to kill Sunna and ease the hurt. He thought again of the panic in Methos' eyes as he'd held him down, and it was as if a light switched on in his head. Trust. They had talked so much about it. That was what he could offer.

"Methos, do you trust me?"

The question obviously took the other Immortal by surprise. He looked stunned, and it took him several seconds to reply. But when he finally did, the answer was a relief.

"With my life," he said, his voice quietly intense.

"Will you trust me with your fear as well?"

Methos studied him suspiciously. "What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said. Will you trust me with your fear?"

"I don't know, I don't understand."

Duncan nodded. "I know. Just a minute." He got out of bed and went over to his trunk. He dug around inside and came up with the long coil of narrow chamois thong which he normally used to bind the wrappings on his sword in place while travelling. He cut four lengths, and carrying them openly, returned to the bed.

"Will you trust me with your fear?" he asked again, and wrapped one of the cords around his own wrist.

Methos' eyes dilated until they were nearly all pupil, and his face went dead white. "I. . . can't."

"Why?"

"I'm afraid!"

"I know. Do you trust me?"

"You know I do!"

"Then trust me with this too."

"It's not you I don't trust, it's me! I don't think I could live with myself if I hurt you!"

"You won't hurt me. If you trust me, you won't hurt me, because there will be no need for it. I'd never hurt you."

Methos looked at the thongs. "Those wouldn't hold a cat, let alone me, MacLeod!"

Duncan grinned. "That's the point."

"Explain!"

Duncan shook his head. "Either you trust me or you don't."

He waited, watching the play of emotions across Methos' face. Some of what he saw there hurt, made him want to forget all about the stupid idea, but the thought of being able to really help was too seductive. He forced himself to be patient while Methos weighed fear against trust. Finally, trust won, but rather than replying aloud, he simply extended his wrists to Duncan like an offering .

"You don't have to lie there like some sacrificial virgin, Methos. We both know you're neither."

A scant curving of Methos' mouth told Duncan that the humor had worked, a little bit. He was still excruciatingly taut. Duncan took his hands and pressed them gently down against the pillows on either side of his head, then he lay one of the leather straps across each wrist, just letting them rest against his skin. That done, he nudged Methos' thighs apart with one knee, positioning him with his feet about two feet apart, and placed a strip of chamois across each ankle. Methos got tenser, his eyes tightly closed. Duncan soothed a hand down one flank and leaned over him, lips next to his ear.

"This might be easier if you paid attention to me instead of your memories."

Methos didn't respond, and Duncan sighed and sat up, wondering he was going to be able to pull this off. Four-thousand and some-odd years of conditioning was not going to be easy to change. Suddenly reminded of a joke, he grinned.

"How many psychiatrists does it take to change a light-bulb?" he asked.

Methos' eyes snapped open and he stared up at Duncan with an expression of utter disbelief. "What?"

Duncan repeated the question. "How many psychiatrists does it take to change a light-bulb?"

Methos shook his head. "I have no idea."

Duncan leaned down again to whisper the answer. "Only one, but the light-bulb really has to want to change."

Methos chuckled wryly. "MacLeod, I'm not a light-bulb."

"That's right." Duncan drew out the words into a sing-song drawl. Carefully, he closed a hand around one wrist. "Is this too much?"

Methos drew a deep, shuddering breath. "No."

"Good." Duncan lifted his hand again. "Now, I want you to imagine that this. . . ." he tugged lightly at the thong, moving it against Methos' wrist, ". . . is tied to the headboard."

Instantly the relaxation his joke had induced was gone. Duncan shook his finger scoldingly. "Bad, Methos, bad. You're going to give yourself muscle cramps if you're not careful."

Methos laughed, a sound that was almost a sob. "I can't help it. Mac, what if the light-bulb doesn't think it can change?"

"The operative word is want, not think. Stop thinking." He waited a minute, observing, and saw no change. It wasn't going to work. There was too much trauma. With a sigh he reached over and picked up one of the thongs, giving up. Methos' hand shot out and he grabbed the trailing end of the one in Duncan's hand.

"Stop! Leave it, I want to try."

Duncan stared at him, gazing into his shadowed eyes. "Are you sure?"

Methos nodded. "I'm sure but, well, it's going to be a little. . . hard."

Duncan's sense of humor got the best of him, and his gaze flickered downward, checking. "Not at the moment, but hopefully soon."

Methos groaned. "A pun? Now?"

"Why not now? Laughter and loving should go hand in hand."

"I wasn't laughing, I was moaning."

"That works too." Duncan said, grinning. "I'll be right back, I'm going to go work on the atmosphere."

Hoping some distraction might make things easier, Duncan got up and put a stack of cd's in the player, grabbing almost at random. He saw several he didn't recognize, and assumed they must be Methos', since he'd objected to the amount of classical music in Duncan's collection. He put those on first and started the player. Silky instrumental jazz drifted from the speakers, evocative of dark corner tables and whiskey. Nice. He wondered if he could swipe it without Methos noticing. He spent a few moments in the kitchen assembling various goodies before he returned to the bed.

Methos was noticeably more relaxed. His eyes were half-closed, and in one hand he held the thong he'd taken from Duncan. He was trailing the end of it back and forth across his arm. Duncan thought that was a good sign. He set his plunder down next to the bed and decided to go for a more direct distraction. Leaning over, he put his lips against the pale, silky hollow of Methos' hip. Methos reacted, reaching for him.

"Ah-ah, no, remember you're tied up."

For a moment Methos looked confused, glancing from his hands back to Duncan. "I'm not. . . oh." Realization came. His gaze narrowed, his expression thoughtful. "I see."

"One step at a time," Duncan whispered, reaching for the thong displaced by Methos' movements. He pressed his hand back down to the pillow and lay the strand of leather across his wrist again. This time Methos didn't tense up as much as the last time. He tugged the bit of chamois from Methos' hand and repeated the procedure with his other arm.

"You can't move."

Methos nodded, silent, an odd, watchful expression on his face. Duncan reached down next to the bed and chose something at random from his assortment of goodies.

"Close your eyes," he instructed. Methos obeyed, and Duncan brushed the small candy across his lips. His nostrils flared and he automatically licked his lips.

"What is it?" Duncan asked him.

Methos smiled confidently. "Chocolate."

"And?"

The smile faded a bit. "And. . . what?"

"Exactly. Chocolate and what?" He held the candy close enough for Methos to smell it.

A slight frown creased the other Immortal's forehead as he struggled to identify it from its scent alone. "Orange?" he ventured finally.

"Bingo. A Grand Marnier truffle from Le Coq D'Or. Appropriate, no?" Duncan asked as he put the chocolate between Methos' lips. Once that distraction was in place, he lowered his head and fixed another kiss in the same spot he'd touched before. Once again Methos started to reach for him, but this time he stopped the movement before it really started, letting his arms settle back against the pillows, hardly disturbing the placement of the chamois strips. Duncan grinned, and swirled his tongue against the sensitive skin of Methos's abdomen. Methos choked momentarily on his confection, then managed to swallow it.

"You're not playing fair," he complained.

"I never said I would," Duncan said, lifting his head. A quick glance told him that nothing was stirring yet. He knew from experience that was unusual, and realized that despite his seeming acceptance, Methos had a long way to go. A few choice tidbits of food weren't going to be enough. He needed more. Mentally he ran through the contents of his liquor cabinet and smiled. That would work. He got up and padded across the room to the bar, and proceeded to fill an old-fashioned glass with Cointreau.

"I wish you wouldn't go away without telling me," Methos said quietly when he felt Duncan settle back on the bed.

Duncan knew this was something important, or he wouldn't have mentioned it. "I'm sorry, I thought maybe some alcohol might help." He indicated the glass he'd set on the bedstand, paused a moment, then pried. "Did he leave you alone?"

Methos nodded. "All the time. He'd tie me up and leave me, sometimes for days."

Duncan found his hands were clenched into fists, and he forced them open again. "I won't ever do that."

"I know, but I can't help remembering."

"No, you can't. I'll tell you next time, if there is a next time."

"I hate this." Methos said, out of the blue.

"I know you do," Duncan said, taking him seriously, and put a hand against his face to comfort him. Methos flinched from his touch.

"Damn him," Duncan swore quietly. "I wish I'd been there. I'd love to have killed him for you." He swept the make-believe bonds aside and took Methos in his arms. "That's it, I can't do this. I'm sorry I even tried."

Methos returned his embrace, face hidden in the tangle of Duncan's hair. After a moment, he muttered something.

"What?" Duncan prompted.

"Don't be sorry. I meant what I told you, I want this."

"I just can't. Not after seeing you react, and imagining what he did to you."

"If I could bear it then, I can bear this now. This is a thousand times easier."

Duncan laughed dryly. "You can bear it, but what if I can't?"

"You can. You know you can."

All of Duncan's instincts told him to refuse. "Methos, I'm afraid I'll end up doing more harm than good. "

"There's no more harm that can be done, believe me."

There was that. He couldn't argue the point. "Methos. . . ." he began.

Methos pushed away, glaring at him. "Shut up, MacLeod! Not one more word! You started this, now you finish it!" There was a touch of real anger in Methos' words.

Startled, Duncan stared at him. Anger was better than fear, though. He picked up one of the thongs from the bed and snared Methos' left wrist in its loop. Methos lay back, letting his hand fall back against the pillow, seemingly relaxed.

"That's better. It's easier when you don't look like you're posing for an effigy."

Methos colored a little. "Did I?"

"If you'd been any stiffer I'd have checked for a pulse."

"Sorry."

"Oh for God's sake, it's not like you could help it! Just try to remember, this is me, not him."

Methos gazed at him for a long moment, then nodded silently. Duncan wrapped the second thong around his other wrist, and then repositioned his feet. Methos was still slightly tense, but nothing like before.

"Close your eyes," he said again. When Methos complied, Duncan picked up the glass of Cointreau and dipped a finger in it, then traced it across his lover's lips. Automatically Methos licked the residue off, and made a startled 'mmm' of pleasure.

"Nice," he commented.

Duncan put a hand behind his head and lifted him up a little as he pressed the glass to his lips. Methos took a mouthful and swallowed it slowly, then at Duncan's prompting took a second. Only then did Duncan let him go. He'd get more down him in a few. Bit by bit, he'd get him drunk enough to relax completely.

"You're trying to get me intoxicated so you can take advantage of me, aren't you?" Methos asked amusedly.

Duncan chuckled. "Seen through my nefarious plot, have you?" he asked, pretending to twirl a nonexistent moustache.

"It wasn't difficult."

"Have some more then." Duncan held the glass for him to take another swallow.

After he drank it, he lay back with a sigh of pleasure, licking his lips. "Well, I suppose if one's going to be taken advantage of, it's best to have it done in style. Gourmet chocolates, expensive liqueurs- you know Adam can't afford the good stuff, so it's been a long time. You know how to live well, MacLeod, it's nice to have a sugar daddy."

Duncan winced at the image. "Sugar daddy?" he echoed distastefully. "Tell you what. You be good and I'll forget you ever said that."

"Yes, sir."

"And don't call me that either!"

"Certainly, oh my mas. . . ."

Duncan shut him up in the most efficient manner he could think of. Methos' mouth tasted of orange, and fire and faintly of chocolate. He felt him start to reach for him, felt the lightest skimming of fingers against his hair, then sensed hands being lowered again to the bed. Methos' response didn't alter, though. His lips were as yielding and his tongue as welcoming as before. Duncan felt himself smile against Methos' mouth, a feeling of triumph surging through him. Maybe this would work. Just maybe. He lifted his head.

"I don't think I can keep myself from touching you," Methos said huskily.

"Sure you can. Just remember you're really tied up."

"But I know I'm not," Methos complained.

"Ever heard of suspension of disbelief? You have to try, or this won't work."

"There is another option." Methos said after a moment.

Duncan studied him narrowly. "That being?"

Methos moved his wrist deliberately toward the strut that braced the left side of the headboard. "Do it."

Duncan studied him. He seemed calm, his color was good, his breathing steady if a bit fast, and his eyes held Duncan's without fear. Slowly, Duncan reached for the dangling ends of the thong and slowly fastened them around the strut, feeling fumble-fingered as he tried to sense the slightest adverse reaction from Methos. None came. He finally finished and sat back. Methos gave an experimental tug, not hard, and nodded, then positioned his other wrist. Duncan tied that one in place as well. When he finished, Methos was noticeably paler. Duncan drew his fingers down Methos' cheek comfortingly.

"If you need to be free, just say it, or just break them."

Methos nodded, his gaze incredibly focused. "Do the rest."

"It's not necessary."

"It is."

Duncan hesitated, but Methos seemed determined. He complied, though it was more difficult without a footboard to use as an anchor. He ended up stringing the thongs around the feet of the bed, and though it was awkward, it worked. When he resumed his place on the bed next to Methos, he saw the muscles in his belly and thighs were taut and hard. Slowly he stroked a hand up and down the long lean length of one of his thighs, then feathered his fingers across his belly. Methos had his eyes closed again. That was bad.

"Methos, stop closing your eyes."

Methos opened his eyes, a regretful expression on his face. "I can't seem to help it."

"Was he better looking than me?"

Methos looked appalled. "What? No!"

"Was he a better lover?" Duncan asked with deliberate petulance.

"Hell no!" Methos responded emphatically.

Duncan leaned down and traced a line from Methos' collarbone to his ear with his tongue. "Then why would you want to fantasize about him instead of me?" Duncan asked, finishing his exploration with a flick of his tongue in the cup of his ear.

"I don't! I. . . ."

Duncan hushed him, tracing the tip of his finger back and forth across the curve of his lower lip. "Then look at me. Watch me. Don't close your eyes."

Methos nodded silently. Duncan moved his finger and replaced it with his lips. The faint fire of Cointreau was still present, reminding him of his earlier plan to relax his partner. He lifted his mouth and reached for the glass, taking a mouthful before replacing it on the bedstand. Kneeling astride Methos' narrow waist he reached down with both hands and lifted his head as far as the restraints allowed, then bent and kissed him again, close-mouthed at first, then opening just enough to let a bead of liqueur seep onto Methos' questing tongue. Methos understood his intent at once, and went after it, a drop at a time, until they'd shared all of the sweet, sharp intoxicant. He lifted his head and let Methos relax back onto the pillows, his breathing shallow and quick.

Methos' gaze slid admiringly down Duncan's torso, and he shook his head. "God, you're beautiful," he sighed, as his gaze travelled farther downward, to his cock, which had hardened in response to their kiss. He licked his lips in blatant invitation.

Duncan smiled, but shook his head. "No, not yet," he said and leaned down again. This time he worked downward from Methos' other ear, to the hollow of his throat, down his chest to the little hollow below the sternum before moving to a taut nipple. Methos gasped, his whole body tightening in response. Duncan could feel Methos' pulse pounding, and against the back of one thigh he felt the stirring of his cock as it began to firm. He felt moved beyond measure at that sign of trust. He'd expected to have to work much harder for that reaction. He lifted his head, and looked into Methos' eyes. "Thank you."

Methos' gaze went from dreamy to puzzled. "What for?"

Duncan reached back and cupped his growing erection. "For trusting me."

Methos closed his eyes almost as if he were in pain, but it was only a moment before he opened them again. "Another thing I can't seem to help. I don't understand it sometimes."

"Neither do I," Duncan said as he began to stroke the velvety shaft beneath his fingers, feeling the familiar-yet-strange hardness. "I never have, I don't feel special."

"Oh, yes, you do," Methos said, twisting his meaning as he arched into his hand. "Very special. Duncan, move back?"

Duncan eyed him askance. "What?"

"Just move back a little, please? God, it's been so long. . . ."

Not quite understanding, but willing to do anything to help Methos overcome his phobia, Duncan edged backward a few inches until he was straddling his upper thighs rather than his waist.

"There, yes, now down."

Duncan smiled, amused. "Something's wrong with this picture. I thought I was supposed to be giving the orders around here," he said drily.

Methos grinned. "I didn't say 'Simon says.'"

Duncan laughed. "No, you didn't, but I'll do it anyway. It would help if I knew exactly what it was it you were after."

"Something that went out of style three thousand years before you were born. . . though if you'd been there, Socrates, Athenaeus, Xenophon. . . they'd all have been vying for your favors. Just ease down, and take me between your thighs."

That made things much clearer. Duncan had recently read up on the sexual practices of ancient peoples specifically so he would be less ignorant of what Methos might enjoy, though he wasn't about to admit that fact to the older immortal. This was a variation on a technique popular in ancient Athens, most common between older men and younger ones. Their relationship mirrored the classical one in many ways. Though he was no boy, he was the much younger partner, and in some ways he regarded Methos as a mentor and teacher. No wonder Methos had thought of this now.

Duncan tucked Methos' cock carefully between his thighs, feeling its arc against his balls, and the base of his own erection. Carefully he eased his backward until he was almost sitting against Methos' knees. The amount of control it took to not let his weight settle fully onto Methos' legs kept his quads taut, and though the unaccustomed pulsing of Methos' penis against his own was strange, it was also stunningly erotic.

"It's a good thing I'm in decent shape, or this would never work." Duncan said huskily.

"There are easier ways, but this is heaven. . . ah, yeah. . . ." Methos moaned as Duncan started to move, swaying to ease the strain on his muscles a little. He reached for Duncan, but his bonds allowed him only an inch of movement. He looked startled for a moment, then fear flashed in his eyes. Duncan let him go instantly and sat forward, cupping his face between his palms.

"It's all right, I won't hurt you."

Methos nodded, drawing a deep, shuddering breath. "I know, I know. I'm sorry."

Duncan kissed him. "Don't be sorry, there's nothing to be sorry for. Just let me take care of you. Trust me."

He slid an exploratory hand down Methos' flank to the silky thatch between his thighs, and his fingers searched, found. Good, he hadn't entirely lost his erection. He started stroking again, a single finger teasing as the silk-skinned length filled and hardened. On the CD player, the CD had changed, and now a man sang, the lyrics strangely sensual and appropriate. Duncan shivered, he didn't know the name of the singer, had never even heard the song before, but at this moment, of all moments, the song spoke of trust.*

Methos opened his eyes. "I do trust you," he echoed in a whisper. "I wish I could touch you."

"You touch me," Duncan told him. "Every time you look at me, I feel it." He touched his lips. "Here," he touched his chest. "and here," he touched his own aching cock, "and here."

Methos shifted beneath him, arching his hips as Duncan continued to arouse him, his body strong and beautiful, held only by his own consent. As he had said, the chamois thongs wouldn't even bind a cat for long. He was there only because he chose to be, and because he trusted Duncan.

Duncan moved back into the position Methos had requested, and began to rock above him, slowly and gently enough that it was a tease. Methos arched again, thrusting between his thighs, hard flesh against hard flesh, tight together. Duncan dropped his hand to stroke himself, adding a new dimension of sensuality to their play. He looked up to find Methos watching him, smoky-eyed and nearly panting, his bound hands curling and flexing as if he held Duncan, not air.

"Tell me what you want," he ordered in a hoarse whisper.

"I want to taste you," Methos answered, brutally honest.

Duncan kissed him, that would have to be taste enough for now, he was finding this new position too much fun to end just yet. He could see why it had been so popular. He let his fingers slide down his own shaft to find the blunt head of Methos' cock where it lay surrounded by the taut skin of his thighs. As he teased the pearly moisture that beaded Methos' cock back and forth over the straining tip, a sudden revelation took him. He grabbed awkwardly for the drawer in the bedstand and managed to get it open, digging around one-handed until he came up with the bottle of massage oil he knew was there.

Flicking it open with his thumb, he drizzled some over his groin. The scent of sandalwood filled the air, as he closed the bottle and dropped it. He slid his fingers through the oil, then down to Methos, who sobbed audibly, wordlessly. His eyes were closed again, but this time Duncan knew he wasn't thinking of Sunna, not anymore. Using fingers, thighs, cock, and lips, Duncan drove Methos ruthlessly. The oil took away some of the friction, yet added a slick, irresistible voluptuousness. Methos started to pump beneath Duncan, arching as Duncan's fingers stroked the straining underside of his rigid shaft, and his mouth stole his breath and coherence.

Suddenly Methos went tense, shuddering as his release came, pulsing liquid fire into Duncan's hand, across his thighs. Duncan continued to stroke him until the last tremble stilled, until his breathing eased to sighs instead of sobs. Yanking the top sheet free, Duncan used it to clean up, then moved to lie beside Methos, one hand stroking his chest reassuringly as he continued to come down, ignoring his own unappeased arousal. He had to make sure Methos was okay. Methos shivered, and Duncan drew him close, willing his erection to subside so he could stop feeling that overwhelming need to find release. He just wanted to hold him, to reassure him.

Methos shivered again. Duncan pushed up onto his elbows, studying him intently. He saw no fear, but knew instinctively that Methos had reached his threshold. He took Methos' hand and moved it toward him until the thong parted with a snap. He repeated the procedure with the other thong, and hooked a foot through the ones binding his feet, sundering them as easily. Methos reached for him instantly, both hands threading through his hair to pull his mouth down in a hard, fierce kiss. Duncan turned toward him, returning his kiss, not caring that his fingers were wound so tight in his hair that it hurt, not noticing that there was a length of chamois caught between their lips.

Methos let him go finally, and pushed him down onto the bed, one hand still tangled in his hair, holding Duncan in place while the other meandered lazily down his torso until he reached the stiff upthrust of his cock. Curling his fingers around the straining flesh, he stroked firmly as placed kisses down the same path his hand had just taken, ending up in the same place.

Duncan tensed in anticipation as the slick fire of Methos' tongue flickered across him, tracing intricate designs, following every ridge and indentation, suckling, biting. Duncan would have reached to touch, but a warning tug on his hair kept him still. It was clearly his turn to be passive. He shifted a little, wanting more, wanting the rhythm Methos denied him, wanting the driving force of consummation.

His movements must have given away his need, for within seconds that need was answered. Methos took him, his hand setting the cadence, the sweet heat of his mouth compelling him to buck and gasp. He tried to lift his head to watch, and again Methos pulled back down, none too gently. He subsided, amused, annoyed and aroused half out of his mind, all at the same time. The urge to touch was almost too strong to resist. To keep himself from doing so, he reached up and wrapped his fingers around the headboard supports.

The act conjured a unexpected surge of excitement in him, as he couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to be bound, as Methos had been. Someday. Feelings were too strong now, he was too far gone to stop this. He moved beneath the tormenting ministrations of hand and mouth, arching rhythmically, pleasure spreading through every nerve, borne on his blood, in his breath, in every aching pulsebeat. Methos' mouth spoke of lust and passion all wordlessly, and his giving unchained Duncan's own desire. He felt it rising through him, and for a moment tried to hold it back. Methos finally let go of his hair, and his hand slid between Duncan's thighs, down to gently cup the heavy weight of his testicles, then further down, pressing in and deep, to a place Duncan hadn't even known he possessed until the past few days. Ecstasy ripped through him, an explosion of delight, relief, and belonging. He felt the touch of tongue and the movement of lips as Methos drank him. That sent a secondary shudder of bliss rocketing through him, and forced a moan from him as every sensation in his body seemed to concentrate in the spill of completion. His hands tightened on the headboard, and one of the supports gave with a sharp crack. He let go, startled and a little embarrassed, as Methos lifted his head to see what the noise had been. He took in the cracked wood, and a grin spread across his secretive mouth.

"It's convenient that you're good with your hands," he commented, then leaned back down for a final lick.

Duncan shuddered with reaction, laughing, and caught Methos by an ear. "It is, isn't it? Stop that and get up here."

Methos slid up next to him, rubbing his ear. "That's not a handle you know."

"I know, but it was handy." Duncan untied the remaining thongs from around his wrists as they lay there, just relaxing, listening to the music that was once again eerily appropriate.**

Duncan tossed aside the broken pieces of leather and half-sat, so he could see Methos' face. "Are you all right with what we did?" he asked, seriously.

Methos nodded. "I never thought I would ever be able to trust anyone like that again, especially not another Immortal."

Duncan grinned. "I'm not just another Immortal."

Methos groaned. "I asked for that didn't I?"

Duncan nodded. "You did."

"Well, you're right, you aren't. You're favored of the gods, Duncan MacLeod."

That wasn't the reaction he'd expected, and Duncan was embarrassed. "I was joking, Methos."

"I know, but I'm not."

"I wish you'd stop. It's embarrassing."

"Oh all right. Pansy," he accused.

"Fag." Duncan retorted with a wink.

Methos grinned. "I don't smoke, nasty habit."

Duncan grinned back. "You know I was using that in the American sense, not the Brit."

"Oh?" Methos asked innocently. "What's the difference?"

Duncan gave up. "Spoil my joke, why don't you?"

"Okay," Methos said agreeably.

They fell quiet for a moment, relaxing, and Methos sighed deeply, and tucked his head against the pillow with a yawn. Duncan felt himself drifting off as well, and he reached over to put a hand on Methos hip, not wanting anything but to touch. The last thing he heard as his eyes drifted closed was Methos speaking softly along with the music, just three words.

"I will be there. . . ."

* * *

_Finis_


	3. Chapter 3

Amanda stood looking at the barge for a moment. The sensation of another Immortal in the area was strong, too strong. It wasn't just Duncan in there. Who was with him? Not Richie. Being dead here, he was exiled from France for the foreseeable future. Keirdwyn? Annie? Who? Flickering light shone from the portholes... fire, or candle light. With a sniff she glanced at her watch, and her eyebrows lifted as she saw that it was a little after four in the morning.

A flare of jealousy went through her as she thought about which of Duncan's Immortal paramours might be holed up in bed with him. Somehow it always took her by surprise when she showed up on the spur of the moment and found him with some other woman, especially another Immortal. Even though they had the kind of relationship where he didn't question her about her lovers, and she did him the same favor, every once in awhile she couldn't keep the green-eyed beast at bay.

Her eyes narrowed, and a feline smile curved her mouth. There was one bad thing about sleeping with another Immortal, it tended to deaden one's realization of Presence, effectively negating the early warning system. They wouldn't even realize she was there until she was already in. She stepped lightly onto the boarding ramp and soundlessly made her way to the door. Taking out her picks, she made short work of the laughably inadequate locks on the barge's door and stepped inside.

Candles. It was candles. She frowned. He hadn't lit candles for her in ages. The air was heavy with the scent of warm honey and sex. She hesitated a moment. It really wasn't good manners... but since when had that ever stopped her? She stared hard at the shadowed bed, seeing only vague shapes under the rumpled covers. Whoever was with him was big, a lot bigger than she was. That ruled out Annie. She glanced down at her own svelte form and lifted her nose haughtily. Why bed a plow-horse when you could have a thoroughbred? She walked a few steps closer and struck a casual pose.

"Hello, Duncan! I'm sorry to stop by so late without calling, but I just got into town and..." she stopped, staring as one of the bed's occupants sat bolt upright, blinking sleepily as he groped for a sword that clearly wasn't next to the bed where it belonged. Just as she registered the man's short-cropped dark hair, his eyes focused on her with startled recognition.

"Amanda!" he exclaimed, sounding more than a little annoyed.

"Methos?" she gasped. "What are you doing here?"

He stared at her, assessingly, then shifted the covers to protect his bedmate's identity as he lifted his eyebrows innocently. "I live here."

"You live here?" She couldn't believe it. Methos was living on the barge? What had happened to Duncan? Why hadn't he told her he was moving? Had he gone back to the States already?

"Duncan owed me a favor, a big one. I took the boat."

"The boat?"

"Yes, the boat. Have you got some rare disorder that makes you repeat everything I say?"

She felt a renewed surge of embarrassment as his words brought home just how much of a fool she was making of herself. "I ah... no. It's just that, I'm just a bit... Oh, damn!" She gave up and tried a new tack. "I'm really sorry, really! Forgive me for barging in. I didn't mean to disturb you and your friend... I'll just go now."

She had begun to back away when the covers began to shake. A moment later a suspiciously familiar chortle sounded. Methos grinned, pretending to laugh, but she stared at the bed with narrowed eyes. She knew that laugh, and it wasn't Methos'. She knew it. She looked from Methos to the form beneath the cover, and back several times before her eyes went wide with realization.

"MacLeod?" she squeaked, her voice an octave higher than normal.

The chortles erupted in a volcano of laughter. A broad, dark hand yanked the cover down revealing a very amused, and very rumpled, Duncan MacLeod. Her gaze darted back and forth between the two of them, and her jaw dropped. Duncan, and Methos, together in bed, naked. The smell of sex unmistakable in the air. There was no arguing this one. It was no dream. She remembered Methos talking wistfully about Duncan nearly a year earlier, before he'd gone off with the mortal woman, Alexa. She had assumed he'd given up on Duncan. Apparently not. Finally she smiled and shook her head.

"I have to hand it to you, Methos. I didn't really think you could do it."

He shrugged, looking insufferably pleased with himself. "Sans doute', milady. It was only a matter of time."

She sketched a respectful bow. "Apparently so." Her gaze sought out her friend and sometime-lover's eyes. He grinned back at her, clearly unembarrassed... unusually so. He was usually so adorably flustered when caught in a compromising situation. Why not now? Far from being flustered, he actually shook a reproving finger at her.

"Since when do you go around telling people about my prowess in bed, woman?"

She thought back anxiously, trying to remember saying anything to anyone. There was Michelle... they had shared a good bit of girl-talk about the Highlander. But she was still in the States! How could he know?

"Do you really think I have a nice butt?" Duncan inquired ingenuously.

That did it. She remembered. She and Methos had been giggling over the sight of Duncan as he leaned over the barge's railing to secure a line. She remembered the conversation as clearly as if it had just happened. It had titillated her a little bit to think that Methos wanted Duncan the same way she did. It had never occurred to her before that Duncan might be as attractive to members of his own sex as he was to hers. They had discussed that beautifully curved bit of anatomy for a moment, and then she'd told Methos, provocatively, that Duncan was worth pursuing. She groaned aloud. Damn. Stupid. Encourage your own competition, why don't you, Amanda?

"Something wrong?" Methos queried.

She looked at him ruefully and sank down on the sofa, wondering absently why one of the cushions was missing. "No, nothing at all. I guess I'm a little tired. I just got off a plane from the States, and I had to fly coach!"

Both men made appropriate noises of sympathy as she yawned delicately.

"And you were so exhausted you decided to stop by my place?" Duncan queried, one eyebrow lifted, his voice amused.

"Well..." she temporized, batting her eyelashes. "I was hoping you'd invite me to stay. After what happened at the Hennessy, I'm afraid I've become persona non grata in the better hotels around town."

Duncan relented immediately. "Of course you can stay, you know you're always wel..." he hesitated and shot a quick glance at Methos, who nodded, and he continued. "...come."

"Oh, no. I couldn't, not now," Amanda said, suspecting that their sleeping arrangement was new enough that she would be a definite imposition.

"Why not now?" Methos asked blandly, patting the covers beside him. "Come on, climb in."

Amanda stared at him as her pulse rate climbed. In bed... with both of them? Oh my. The temperature in the room seemed to have suddenly skyrocketed. If she'd had a fan she'd have been plying it madly.

"Ah... I'm not sure that's a good idea..." she began, even though a little voice inside her was urging her to rip off her clothes and join them.

"Come on, it's plenty big enough, and we're all tired. After all, you did wake us up out of a sound sleep."

Sleep. They were inviting her to sleep. Oh. Trying not to look disappointed, she sighed. "That's okay, I'll just sack out over here."

"What, you afraid it's contagious or something?" Duncan asked, frowning. "Come on."

At first she didn't get it. "Afraid what's contagious," she began. Then it hit her and she chuckled. "Oh, heaven's no! If bisexuality were contagious you'd have caught it from me a long time ago." She grinned and winked. As Duncan digested that remark, she thought about the offer some more. Actually, the bed was a lot more comfortable than the couch, and hell, she could keep her hands to herself if necessary. And they had asked her. She stood up and started to unzip her skirt. "Okay guys, make room."

Somehow not quite comfortable with the idea of being completely nude, she stripped down to her silk camisole and panties and then crawled into the space they had made between them. Both of them were buck naked, a fact she tried to ignore, as tempting as it was to sneak a peek to see how Methos compared to Duncan. As they settled in and Duncan leaned over to give her a kiss. Just a "goodnight" sort of kiss, which felt a little strange. It felt even stranger when Methos did the same thing, then drew back with little frown on his face.

"Did I ever say thank you for being so understanding about the crystal?" he asked.

She shook her head, and he sighed.

"It's hard to remember one's manners sometimes. Thank you."

"No problem," she said, yawning. "Good night." Turning over, she snuggled up against Duncan's much-discussed backside, a position she was familiar with. Methos started to rub her back. God, it felt good. Soothing, relaxing. If she were a cat she'd have been purring. Her eyelids started to droop, and her breathing deepened. At this rate she'd be...

* * *

Duncan woke up with the light. A pale gray radiance seeped in through the portholes. He'd been pushed almost to the very edge of the bed by his sleeping companion. Glancing over, he was momentarily startled to realize that he had two of them, then he remembered what had happened. He studied them; Amanda was curled up like a cat, and Methos splayed out like royalty. Between the two of them, they took up most of the bed. Well, he was over-warm, and needed to use the bathroom badly. He eased out of bed and took care of the call of nature, then went and sat on the couch.

Seeing the two of them like that really brought home the events of the past couple of weeks. He was surprised to find he couldn't decide which of them he felt more strongly about. No, surprise wasn't the right word. Stunned was more like it. He'd known Amanda for centuries, and Methos only a couple of years, but he knew that now he would not be able to give up either of them. Confused, needing to think, he pulled on some sweats and his running shoes. After spending most of the previous day in bed, his body was screaming for exercise of a less focused nature, and a run in the cold morning air would help clear his mind.

He slipped quietly out the door, leaving his friends to sleep. No, that was wrong, he thought, as he started to run. Not friends, not just friends anyway. Lovers. God, that sounded so strange. He let his mind go blank as his pace picked up, feeling the cold air try to snatch the breath from his lungs. He'd think about it later.

* * *

Methos woke up from a nightmare with a sudden sense of loss. He reached out to make sure Duncan was still in bed, but instead of the hard, muscular form he expected, his hand encountered soft, silk-covered curves. He opened his eyes and started to lift his hand away, only to have one of Amanda's smaller ones cover his and hold it in place. Her eyes were closed as she made a little sigh and turned to burrow closer to him, as if seeking warmth. Beneath his palm, her nipple rose. He responded instinctively to that, shifting his hand so his fingers could tease the small nub. Another part of him responded rather instinctively as well. She had lovely breasts, not large, but they filled palm nicely.

Feeling vaguely guilty at his response to her, he let his hand flatten again, leaving it in place under hers, but no longer caressing her. He lifted his head enough to confirm that Duncan was gone. Looking around, he saw no sign of him in any of the barge's small spaces, nor could he hear him in the bathroom. Clearly, he'd gone out. That must have been what triggered the nightmare. He swallowed nervously. The idea that Duncan had gone out without saying a word made him nervous. His mind filled with all kinds of explanations, ranging from the simple (he'd gone to get breakfast), to the disastrous (Amanda's presence had reminded him that he really only liked women and now he was devastated at having made love with Methos). The more he thought about it, the less likely the former seemed, and the more likely the latter seemed.

Amanda finally relaxed, and he started to ease his hand out from underneath hers, only to have her clamp it in place again. Her free hand stole over to his chest, and her fingers slid back and forth over one of his nipples. He tensed, eyeing her face, but she still seemed serenely asleep. She probably thought he was Duncan. Methos thought about all the times Amanda must have woken up next to Duncan like this, and felt a tremendous surge of jealousy. Not caring if he woke her, he pushed her hand away and yanked his hand off her breast. He sat up, running his hands through his hair as he stared at the doorway as if concentrating could make Duncan reappear. Amanda made a startled sound, and he sensed her sitting up as well. After a moment she reached over and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Methos?"

"What?" he snapped, knowing she didn't deserve it but unable to stop himself.

"I'm sorry, I guess I thought you were Duncan."

He sighed, feeling guilty. "I know you did. It's all right, you didn't do anything wrong."

She was quiet for a moment, then the hand on his shoulder started to stroke him soothingly. "Methos, it's okay. He's just gone out for a run."

He looked sharply at her, trying not to see the sympathy and understanding in her eyes. "How do you know?"

"I know him, he runs nearly every morning. I usually wake up after he's gone, since I'm a late sleeper and he's an early riser."

Relief crept through him, and he drew a long, ragged breath. "Oh."

She smiled. "How long has it been?"

"How long has what been?"

"How long have you two been... together?"

Methos laughed, closing his eyes. "Two weeks."

She didn't reply at first, then she sighed. "Do I have timing or what?"

"It's not your fault."

"I guess not. Umm... can I ask you a question?"

"You can ask." Implied was the possibility that he might not answer.

"Are you really living here?"

He chuckled. "No, though I really did threaten to take the boat away in return for helping him with one of his schemes and almost losing my head in the process! I've been over a few times, but I have to be careful not to get noticed by his local Watcher. That would blow my cover for sure. Besides, at this stage in my life I'm just not the 'setting up housekeeping' type, and frankly neither is he."

Amanda made a face. "No, I can attest to that. Somehow I've never managed to catch him when we were both in a nesting mood." She sighed, and he knew she was thinking about her on-again-off-again relationship with Duncan. Methos had some hope of establishing something like that himself. After a moment she spoke again. "You know, you really surprised me. I didn't think Duncan would ever..."

"Neither did I."

"Was it hard?"

He burst out laughing. "I'm going to assume you didn't mean that colloquially."

She made a face and punched him lightly in the shoulder. "You are so bad! You know what I meant."

"Do you really want to know?" he asked, rather amazed. He'd expected to find her jealous... perhaps because he knew he had been.

"I'm dying to." she said conspiratorially. "It's just so amazing to me! I have to know all about it!"

He thought about that for a moment, then another question occurred to him. "Are you really?"

"Am I really what?" she asked, puzzled.

"Bi?"

She giggled. "You didn't really think Rebecca and I were just roommates, did you? Now, tell me!"

Methos told her. At first she was just interested and sympathetic, then the more he spoke, he started to notice things. Like the fact that she was flushed, and that her breathing was a little rapid, and her eyes a bit dilated. It dawned on him that she was getting aroused. So was he, in the retelling. When he finished, she looked wistfully toward the door, as if hoping the Highlander would walk through it.

"Damn," was all she said.

He knew exactly how she felt. After a minute, she spoke again, her eyes faraway, and her voice deceptively matter-of-fact. "You know, when you invited me into bed with you two last night, I thought for a minute... well, never mind."

He looked at her poised profile for a long moment, and reached over to ruffle the blonde fluff on her head. Thank goodness it had grown out enough that she didn't look like a scarlet-fever victim anymore, though he wished she would go back to her natural color.

"Actually, if things had been a little different, I probably would have," he said, utterly serious.

She turned toward him, eyes gone wide. "Methos... I..."

He shook his head. "Don't say anything you might regret."

She considered that, then nodded. "Good plan. But if the circumstances ever are right, you let me know."

"I promise, ma coeur, but I've waited too long for this." He gestured silently toward the empty place where Duncan had slept.

"I know," she said, giving him a doe-eyed look that would have slain a mortal man, as she leaned over to kiss him. It was a soft, open kiss, full of promises. He returned it in kind, fully intending to keep them someday.

* * *

Duncan walked back and forth outside the barge, cooling down before he went in. It had been a good run, and his muscles ached slightly. He stretched one last time, then turned toward the ramp. A smile curved his mouth as he got close to the door. He didn't have any really good reason to smile, other than the fact that two people he cared very much for were behind that door. The run had taken care of his anxiety... or perhaps the endorphins it had generated had simply overwhelmed the stress. Whichever, he was looking forward to taking a quick shower and then crawling back under the covers between those two.

He had to admit, he'd had some rather interesting thoughts about that situation during the run. He still wasn't too sure about Methos' motivation behind inviting Amanda to join them. He'd gone along with it, and they had done nothing but sleep, but the curiosity was still there. What would it be like? He'd shared a woman before, he'd been with two women before, but this was... different. He opened the door and stepped inside, to hear Methos' voice.

"I promise, ma coeur, but I've waited too long for this."

Duncan stared, a bit stunned as he watched Methos gesture toward the bed. He was even more stunned a moment later, when Amanda whispered some reply and leaned over to kiss him. It wasn't just a peck, either. He stood staring, frozen in place. Somehow, of all the things he'd expected to find on his return, this was something he'd never considered. After everything Methos had said to him in the past two weeks, after everything they'd done together... the thought that he'd turn around and make love to Amanda as soon as Duncan's back was turned was staggering. The fact that Amanda would let him hurt nearly as much. In his mind, he kept hearing Methos' half-joking comment "If you died, Amanda would be free to date."

He must have made some sound, for Methos' head lifted, and his gaze locked with Duncan's. Duncan watched Methos' expression change from what seemed to be pleasure or amusement, to utter dismay as he rolled away from Amanda.

"Duncan, it's not what you think..." he began lamely.

"Oh? You're reading minds these days?" Duncan asked, his voice like ice.

"You know that's not what I meant. I know what this looks like, but it isn't!"

"Isn't what? You and Amanda in bed, kissing?"

"Well, yes, we were kissing, but it was just a friendly kiss."

Duncan laughed humorlessly. "Very friendly."

"Damn it! Duncan... you have to listen to me!"

"No, I don't." Duncan reached for the door to open it, then paused, looking back. "It was all an act, wasn't it? You just wanted me in your bed, and you knew exactly how to manipulate me."

If Duncan hadn't known better, he would have thought what flared in Methos' eyes was hurt, that the expression on his face was pain, but it couldn't be.

"Duncan..." Methos said, then stopped, his voice breaking convincingly.

"Oh for god's sake!" Amanda said, bouncing out of bed and to her feet. She looked rather amusing, still clad in black silk panties and camisole, her hands fisted on her hips. "MacLeod, you can be such an ass sometimes! We lay there and talked about you for the last half hour! And he didn't kiss me, I kissed him, okay? And I only did it because he was being nice. Can't you tell when someone loves you, you big oaf?"

Duncan looked at her through narrowed eyes. Amanda had never been the most truthful of souls, but he'd gotten pretty good at catching her when she lied. She didn't seem to be lying right now. The epithets leant credence... she only called him names when he was being pigheaded.

Amanda stepped closer, putting her hand on his arm. "Mac, I know I haven't always told the truth about everything," she said, almost as if she'd read his mind. "But I always have about the important stuff. I'm not lying now. The only way he would come on to me right now is if you told him to."

Amanda's sincerity was hard to resist. He looked back at Methos, who looked nearly as bad as he had the night he'd shown up after Alexa died. He couldn't fake that. So far as Duncan had been able to tell, the only emotion Methos could convincingly fake was amusement. Had he jumped to a conclusion? He had admit that the situation was one all too easy to misinterpret. He'd been caught in similar ones himself on more than one occasion. His gaze shifted to Amanda, who looked like she was about to cry.

"Duncan, you know I'd never dishonor you like that. You know he wouldn't either. Deep inside, you know it."

The hell of it was, he did. They wouldn't. It made him feel like crap to realize just what a jerk he'd been. Now how could he make it up to them? One thing was certain, he had to apologize. "Amanda, Methos, I'm sorry."

Methos put his hands over his face and collapsed backward onto the bed with a groan. Duncan took a step toward him, then stopped, not sure what he should do. Amanda glared at him.

"Get over there!" she hissed.

"But..."

"Get!" she repeated, planting her hands on his butt and pushing him, hard. He stumbled, recovered and kept going. When he sat down on the bed she waved him down, and didn't look satisfied until he reached to take Methos in his arms.

"That's better," she said cheerfully "You two make up, I'll make breakfast."

Methos wrapped his arms around Duncan, his face close as he whispered fiercely. "I'd rather you kill me than doubt me, Highlander."

"I could never do that. Methos, I'm sorry. Like Amanda said, I was an ass."

"But such an ass..." Methos sighed, sliding a hand down to his backside.

Duncan grinned, knowing he'd been forgiven. Thank heavens... or rather, Amanda. He realized then what Amanda had just said, and groaned ruefully. "I just might have."

"You might have what?"

"Killed you, and me too. Amanda said she was going to cook."

"You owe her an apology too, you know."

Duncan sobered. "I know." He watched at her as she opened cabinets, scoping out their contents, and then looked back at Methos.

"So, what were you two doing? I guess I should have asked that first."

Methos smiled. "Yes, you should have. She wanted to know how... we... happened. I told her. To tell the truth it got her a little turned on, and she confessed that at first she thought we were inviting her to a threesome last night and was disappointed that we weren't. I told her had we not been so new, it would definitely have been a consideration." He studied Duncan's face assessingly. "Was I wrong?"

Duncan shook his head, remembering all the thoughts he'd had while running. "No, you weren't. When I got back, I was thinking about both of you, and wondering how I was ever going to manage it."

Methos lifted an eyebrow. "Manage? Both of us? Is that what you want?"

Embarrassed, Duncan looked away as he nodded. "I- don't think I can do without either of you."

Methos reached out to touch his face softly. "You're growing up, MacLeod. And it only took you four hundred years. I think that may be a record for one of us."

A metallic clatter, followed by a rather foul curse in Old English drew their attention to the kitchen, where Amanda was trying to balance two bowls, a skillet, and a whisk. Methos nodded toward her.

"Why don't you save both our lives and invite her over here so you can apologize?"

Duncan looked from Methos to Amanda, and back, his gaze speculative. "Isn't it a little early to be adding new players to this game?"

Methos smiled. "Duncan, I'm five thousand years old. Believe me, I can handle this."

"But can I?" Duncan asked ruefully.

Methos gazed at him evenly. "I think you'd already decided that before you walked back in the door."

Duncan closed his eyes. Methos was right. As usual. Damn, that trait was going to get annoying. He was used to being the one who was usually right. Methos sometimes made him feel like Richie... which was probably his just reward. He had come back to the barge with every goal of finding a way to keep both Methos and Amanda as lovers. He'd just figured it would take a lot longer.

"Amanda?" he called.

She jumped and dropped the entire collection of kitchen goods, except for the whisk. When they'd finished crashing and clanging on the floor, she looked up sheepishly. "Sorry, you startled me. What?"

"Forget breakfast and come here."

Her eyes widened, and she went to put her hand to her heart, but ended up poking herself in the chest with the whisk. She didn't notice. "Me?"

Duncan nodded.

"Go there?" she pointed at the bed with the beater.

They both nodded.

She studied them a moment, looked at the mess she'd made, looked back at them, and tossed the whisk down with the rest of the detritus. "My mama didn't raise no fool."

Methos and Duncan looked at each other, eyebrows raised.

"No fool, perhaps, but a thief." Duncan said.

"A troublemaker..." Methos added.

"A gambler..." Duncan put in, playing along.

"A vixen..." Methos continued.

Amanda stood next to the bed, scowling. "Did you two invite me over here just to insult me?"

"Not to mention gorgeous." Duncan hastily added.

"And talented..." Methos amended.

"And annoying..." Duncan caught her hand and pulled her down on top of him. "And maddening, and sexy." He finished his recital by kissing her.

"Hey!" Methos complained. "It was my turn."

Duncan ignored him for the moment, knowing it would be okay, and concentrated on kissing Amanda. She kissed him back, enthusiastically, and he was rather sorry to break the contact a moment later, but he had to in order to apologize.

"Amanda, I'm sorry. I should never have doubted you."

"That's right, you shouldn't have," she agreed as she snuggled close, her face against his chest. After a moment she raised her head, her nose wrinkled slightly. "Um... Duncan?"

"What?" he asked guardedly, since her tone and expression indicated a problem.

She tugged at his shirt and pants. "Would you mind taking these off? I think there's a reason why they're called 'sweats.'"

It took him a moment to remember that he'd just come back from running, and that Amanda hated the smell of sweat. He set her away from him and rolled to his feet. "Actually, I suspect I need to do more than that. I'll be back in ten minutes. In the meantime, I promise not to get all bent out of shape if I come out and find you... warming up."

Duncan ducked into the bathroom and shed his clothes in record time. Deliberately setting the water temperature to cool to offset his heated thoughts, he ducked into the shower and made quick work of washing up, enjoying the tension the chill water brought to his skin. Finished, he shut off the water and stepped out. He toweled off enough that he wasn't dripping, then looked quietly around the corner, wondering what might be happening.

Amanda lay on her stomach, Methos knelt, straddling her, though the sheet and her panties separated them almost chastely. His hands moved under her camisole to touch the living silk of her flesh, molding and shaping the slight but firm muscles. She shivered under his hands, and Methos smiled. He let his fingers move lower, to the rounding of her buttocks, his fingers sliding underneath the edge of her panties. Duncan kept watching, feeling like a voyeur. It was oddly arousing to watch someone else touching that familiar body; to watch the man he'd just made love with touch a woman he'd also made love to. A shiver went through him that had nothing to do with his cool shower.

He might have stood there longer had Methos not looked up just then, his gaze darkening as it travelled down his naked body. What had a moment earlier been just a slight stirring suddenly bloomed into full-fledged erectness. Methos grinned and leaned down to whisper something to Amanda, who looked over her shoulder at Duncan, her gaze sliding down his body just like Methos' had. Methos looked from Duncan to Amanda.

"What do you think, should we let the kid play too?"

She made a show of thinking about it, then finally sighed. "Oh, I suppose so. It'd be a shame to waste that."

Duncan dropped the towel he still held in his hands, and took the few steps that brought him to the bed. He put a knee on the bed, but before he could ease himself down, Methos reached over and tangled his fingers in his wet hair, using it to drag him over for a hard, consuming kiss. Duncan caught Methos' shoulders for balance, and kissed him back. Methos put a hand against his face, fingers stroking the night's growth of beard. A moment later Duncan moaned into the kiss as a hand slid between his thighs to cup the heavy weight of his testicles and then move upward to curl around the rigid shaft of his cock.

As the hand moved slowly, teasingly, Duncan realized that both of Methos' hands were well above his waist. Which meant the one stroking him was Amanda's. Suddenly things seemed way too intense, and the edge far too close for comfort. He pulled his mouth from Methos' and sucked air into his lungs in panting gasps as he tried to find his control.

They didn't let him. Methos pushed him, and off-balance, he fell back onto the bed. A moment later he was effectively pinned in place as Methos leaned across his midriff, and Amanda straddled one of his legs. She had stripped off her lingerie and he could feel the silky tickle of her close-trimmed pubic hair against his skin. She began to kiss a path up his leg, pausing to nip and lick every so often.

Methos worked from his chest downward, starting with one very sensitive nipple, then moving down his side with tickling bites until he reached his hip. There he traced the lattice of Duncan's abdominal muscles with his tongue, following their path down to the thick, still-damp curls at his groin. From below Amanda reached his inner thigh, and continued upward with moist, toothy kisses. Some still rational part of his mind realized where they were converging and he was torn between surrendering, and fighting them so he could retain some tiny shred of command over himself. He took too long to decide, and the choice was taken from him as their mouths met on his rigid flesh.

He moaned, feeling their kiss as it encompassed him. Desperate, he reached out to touch something, anything, and found only the strong arch of a back and shoulder within reach. He followed that with his hand until his fingers found the curve of a neck, and the velvet brush of short-cropped hair against his fingers. It could be either of them, but he figured it had to be Methos, since he was closer. He stroked that softness and wished there was more he could do, as Methos and Amanda moved on him, sucking, licking.

Duncan felt vaguely guilty that they were doing all the work, but not enough to make the effort needed to change things. This was too good, too damn good. His body arched under their ministrations as they tortured him. One would take him briefly into the hot, wet shelter of their mouth only to let him go and blow on him, the air seeming cold against his overheated skin. Then the other would repeat the sequence.

He realized he could tell which one of them had him at any given moment without even looking. They each had a distinct style, a distinct feel. Amanda was more delicate, using her tongue like a cat, her hand always cupping him below, her fingers evoking shudders of delight as the touch called up some of the newer pleasures he had discovered the past two days. Methos, being male himself, knew that strong suction and a set rhythm could drive him nearly to the brink, but he always refused to push him over. He heard Amanda make a soft, familiar moan, and opened his eyes to see Methos brush his thumb across her lips over and over, stroking their swollen softness, watched Amanda flick her tongue out to taste him. Ah, god, he wanted to touch her, to taste her, to do something besides lie there!

He pushed against Methos' shoulder until he finally lifted, and Amanda moved away as well. He reached for Methos, who let himself be caught and kissed, a hot, silky meshing of tongues He felt Amanda's hands on him again, urging him onto his side, and he complied. Methos moved away but before he could protest, Amanda had taken his place, her lithe, slender form full against his, her cool-tipped breasts against his chest, one of her thighs sliding over his to bring the humid heat of her mons against the hard length of his shaft. He ran his hands down her sides, over the soft flare of her hips, behind to cup the shallow curves of her buttocks and draw her forward, sliding her silky wetness over him, touching the cluster of nerves at the apex of her thighs with the blunt tip of his cock.

She moaned and shuddered, taking up the motion herself, freeing Duncan's hands to move lower, between her thighs, finding the delicate folds that hid the well of her body and parting them so he could ease a finger deep. As he did, her teeth found his shoulder and bit hard, he didn't care. The mark would be gone in minutes. She moved, stroking herself over him again and again. He followed her rhythm with his fingers.

Methos made his presence known, his lips grazing the back of Duncan's neck, then between his shoulder blades, moving down his back until finally they were on the hard curve of a buttock. Duncan was suddenly very aware, and even more aroused, if that were possible. Methos nipped and licked at the taut flesh, and then his fingers were sliding between his cheeks. The contrast between the slick, cool substance on Methos' fingers and the heat of his own body made him gasp, his breath hissing over clenched teeth. Methos shifted, bringing his mouth to Duncan's ear.

"Relax, I don't want to hurt you," he said, following his words with a swirl of his tongue on the sensitive inner surface of Duncan's ear.

Memories exploded through him, exquisite pain-pleasure, the wrenching delight of being taken. He shuddered and tried not to anticipate, because that would bring tension with it.

"Better, much better..."

Clever fingers teased him, entering minutely, withdrawing, pressing deep, then shallow again, the pattern repeating until he thought he would lose his mind. Amanda reached down and took his pulsing shaft in her hand, shifted her knee up over his hip, and guided him until he was pressed just a bare half-inch inside her. He would have surged forward, except for the voice in his ear.

"Wait," it instructed.

He waited. Methos' fingers were replaced by the velvet-steel of his cock. As he pressed his entry, he bit lightly at Duncan's earlobe. Duncan didn't need a prompt. He couldn't have stopped himself for anything. He entered Amanda in a hot, liquid slide, just as he was filled, his body aching with the unique distension-constriction he had learned so recently to delight in. The dual sensation, penetration given and received, was so staggeringly ecstatic that he thought for a moment he would pass out. The moment of dizziness passed, and suddenly he felt present inside his body even more strongly than before. He opened his eyes and studied Amanda's gamine face, her eyes closed, her lashes dark fans on her flushed cheeks. Her mouth was full and tender, her lips slightly parted. He brushed his own lips across hers, feeling the hot whisper of her breath with his tongue. She reached up to thread her fingers in his hair and pull his mouth hard against hers.

Methos went deep then, and Duncan's breath caught on a sob of pleasure. Amanda lifted her mouth from his so he could breathe, Duncan felt Methos lean forward, and heard the sound of their kiss. He pushed hard into Amanda's yielding heat, felt the clasp and give of her around him, but at the same time he felt Methos sliding from him. He pushed back against him to keep from losing contact, and used his hands to pull Amanda with him. Better. He sighed with relief, and Amanda laughed softly. He groaned at the tremors her laughter sent through her flesh and into him.

"Be still Duncan," she whispered.

"I can't!" he gasped. "I have to move!"

"No, you don't," Methos assured him, his voice a throaty growl as he continued to move in tiny undulations that were about to send Duncan over the edge. "You can be still, and you will."

"Or we'll make you, love." Amanda added in a voice he knew better than to defy. "Don't think we can't."

Ah... god. What images that silky promise conjured up! He almost moved just to make them follow through, but decided instead to at least try and do as they asked. He covered the hand on his hip with one of his own, and left the other resting on Amanda's thigh, caressing her as she tormented him.

"I'm still," he managed.

They weren't. Slowly, they moved in him and on him, bodies slick and hot and perfect as they embraced him. He let himself relax, moving as they moved him, the conflagration inside him burning higher and higher with each sigh, each kiss, each entry and each accommodation. He heard the rhythmic cadence of Methos' breath harsh in his ear as his body curled forward into Duncan's, pushing his hips into Amanda, who yielded softly to each undulation. They moved almost as one being, a creature of fire. Suddenly Amanda gasped, and let out a low, soft moan. Duncan felt the silken shiver of her body around him.

Her release made him crazy. He had to move. He rolled, taking both his weight, and Methos' on his knees and forearms as he pumped hard into her still-pulsing sheath. She bent her knees and arched into his strokes as they drove her orgasm even higher. After only a second, Methos hands covered his on the bed, his knees taking his own weight as his movements echoed Duncan's. That was more than he could bear. He buried himself deep in Amanda's welcoming heat as the lightning exploded through him and he turned to liquid fire.

* * *

"Duncan?"

Amanda sounded a bit distressed. His eyes flew open and he looked down at her. She was looking a bit red in the face, not in a flushed-and-sated sort of way, either. It dawned on him that she was probably having trouble breathing, what with two people on top of her. He shoved himself back up onto his hands and knees, taking Methos with him.

"God, I'm sorry!"

"Me too," echoed Methos.

Duncan gasped a little as his other lover eased out of him. He wasn't sure he'd ever quite get used to that sensation. Amanda took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and a smile curved her mouth.

"That's better. I wouldn't have minded, except that you two weigh a ton and it was getting a little stuffy."

"That's one of the hazards of being on the bottom." Methos said, flopping onto his back with a sigh. "But was it worth it?"

She gave a whole-body shrug, her expression blissful. "Need you ask?" she queried.

Duncan looked from one to the other, and let himself collapse on the side of the bed that still had a little room. "I thought I was going to die."

"Don't be so melodramatic." Methos said, chuckling. "People don't die from orgasms." "Who's talking about coming? I was talking about that not moving crap!"

Amanda laughed. "I told you he couldn't do it!"

Duncan looked at her sharply. "What?"

"True." Methos answered. "I owe you a bottle of Chateau Mouton Rothschild. What year would you prefer?"

Amanda considered that for a moment, the shrugged. "I'll leave that up to you... as long as it's one of the most expensive ones."

Duncan looked from one to the other, eyebrows raised incredulously. "You two bet on me?" he demanded.

"Sorry, it's an old habit," Amanda said, not looking at all apologetic.

He swung his gaze to Methos, who had the grace to blush. "It was her idea," he offered lamely.

Duncan flopped onto his back, arms crossed on his chest as he stared up at the ceiling. They'd bet on him! A bloody bottle of wine! Expensive wine, yes, but... really! As he thought about it, his indignation faded, stealthily being replaced by amusement. He set his jaw so he wouldn't smile, and lay there in stony silence, wondering how long it would take to get a real apology out of them. Ten seconds ticked by, twenty, thirty.

"Duncan?" Methos sounded uncertain.

Duncan remained silent, though he had to resort to biting the inside of his lip. Ten more seconds passed.

"Duncan?" This time Methos actually sounded worried.

"MacLeod?" Amanda chimed in. She sounded concerned too.

He turned his back to them, knowing he was about to break into a huge grin. Not just a grin. Laughter. He swallowed it, shoulders shaking with merriment.

"Oh, gods," Methos sounded a little frantic. "Duncan, I'm sorry! I wouldn't hurt you for anything! It was thoughtless, I know. Please..."

A warm hand found his shoulder and Methos leaned over to see his face, and froze as he realized Duncan was laughing, not crying. Duncan put a finger to his lips and shook his head minutely. Methos managed to arrange his face into appropriately tragic lines as he sat back and looked at Amanda. He didn't say a word. There were a few seconds of silence.

"Mac?" Amanda said, her voice full of remorse. "I didn't mean anything by it, honest! You know me, I just get carried away sometime...huh!"

Duncan rolled over and his hands unerringly found her ribcage. She shrieked and laughed as he tickled her, and she flailed at his head and shoulders with both hands.

"You rat! I thought you were upset! I thought you were crying!" She gasped. "Ooooh!" Her fingers found his ribs, but brought no response. She'd forgotten he wasn't ticklish. "Stop it! Right now!"

He eased off, letting her catch her breath, and glared at both of them. "I'll no' have you bettin' on me, d'ye hear?"

They both nodded solemnly, then Amanda spoiled it by giggling. "I love it when you talk Scots to me. I do so miss your 'lout' years sometimes. You were a lot more fun then!"

Methos looked at her, eyebrows raised. "More fun than this? I don't believe it!"

She considered that, then sighed. "Okay, you've got me. He's learned a lot since then. But he could use to loosen up sometimes."

"Now that I'll second. We'll just have to make sure he stays loose from here on out."

She grinned. "Sounds good to me."

Duncan shook his head. "You two are playing with fire."

"I know," Methos said, his voice low and rough. "But I love to feel you burn."

Amanda rolled her eyes. "Geez, Methos, have you been reading bad romance novels or what?"

She looked puzzled when the two men burst into laughter. She shrugged and stretched, then suddenly sat bolt upright.

"Oh my God! What time is it? I have an eleven o' clock appointment at Gaultier!" She scrambled out of the bed and dashed across to the kitchen to look at the clock. "No!" she shrieked. "I have twenty eight minutes to get there! Can I borrow the Citroen?"

Duncan nodded. "The keys are..."

"In the Greek krater, I know. You always keep them there." She grabbed her clothes off the floor and started pulling them on. Within minutes she was gone, like a whirlwind. Methos stared after her, bemusedly.

"Is she always like that?"

Duncan nodded. "Sometimes she's worse."

Methos let out a low whistle. "This is going to be interesting."

Duncan grinned. "It's already interesting. It's going to get crazy."

* * *

Finis


	4. Chapter 4

Duncan finished putting away his groceries and took a beer from the refrigerator. He stood for a moment, staring blankly at the bottle, sliding a finger up and down its cool, moisture-beaded length, and for some odd reason found himself feeling aroused. After a moment the answer hit him, and he chuckled, shaking his head wryly. Beer reminded him of Methos, and Methos reminded him of sex, ergo beer reminded him of sex. A conditioned response, just like Pavlov's dog and that damned bell. He savored a long gulp of the cold, faintly bitter liquid and sighed. It didn't taste the same without someone to drink it with. He knew that was all in his head, but still, he missed Methos, missed him a lot.

When he'd returned to Seacouver from Paris, he'd tried to talk Methos into coming with him. The older immortal had declined, pointing out that his Watcher compatriots might find it suspicious if he kept showing up wherever Duncan MacLeod was. He was right, but that hadn't made it any easier to leave him behind. Duncan still felt slightly guilty at having even thought of suggesting that Methos try to get himself assigned as his Watcher in order to allay that suspicion. Joe wouldn't be a bit pleased to be replaced, especially not by Methos. Duncan had gone home, not realizing just how used to Methos' presence he'd gotten until it was too late. Sure, he had other friends, and Richie, but it wasn't the same. It wasn't Methos. It would be nice to hear from him- a phone call, a post card, anything.

He sat down and took another swig of his beer, adjusting his shorts so they didn't bind across his erection. He chuckled again, thinking that he'd better learn to control that response. Getting a hard-on every time he went to Joe's for a drink might be hard to explain, and he wasn't willing to claim he'd gone on the wagon. That didn't help right now, though. Eminently practical, he knew what would help. He spread his legs slightly and reached down with one hand to stroke his cock through the soft layers of his cutoff sweats and briefs. It felt good, very good.

He imagined another hand on him, one perhaps not quite so broad-palmed, but with long, strong fingers. He shifted, arching a little, and with his other hand lifted the beer bottle to his lips and took another drink, savoring the slick feel of the glass against his lips and the clean, earthy taste of the beer. Seconds later he almost choked as he suddenly felt Presence. He put the bottle down and reached for his sword, arousal sublimated in a rush of adrenaline. It was probably just Richie, but it never paid to be careless. A moment later a knock sounded at the door. Not Richie, then, Richie would use his key to the elevator. He quietly padded over to the narrow hallway, and wondered for the hundredth time why he had never put in a peephole. It certainly would be the smart thing to do.

"Who is it?" Duncan queried, wondering if it might be Amanda.

"Candygram," came the reply, in an amused male tenor.

Duncan grinned in pleased recognition and unbolted the door. As he opened it, the doorway framed Methos' lean, slouched frame. His hair had grown out some, and in a concession to the day's warmth he was wearing a t-shirt with his jeans rather than one of the bulky sweaters he usually favored, but basically he looked just the same. Of course, how could he do otherwise? He glanced at the katana in Duncan's hand and lifted a mocking eyebrow.

"Is that a sword in your hand or are you just happy to see me?"

Duncan dropped the katana into the umbrella stand with an uncharacteristic lack of respect for the ancient weapon, and hauled his visitor bodily into the apartment. He shoved Methos up against the wall and took his face between his hands, holding him still for a kiss that rapidly went from welcoming to passionate as his arousal reasserted itself. As his tongue sought out the familiar taste of Methos, his body also sought the familiar, his hips moving against Methos' until he felt a response behind the interfering bulk of denim and chrome, felt the rising hardness he'd missed for nearly two months now. Methos tore his mouth away, gasping, and smiled.

"I think that answers my question," Methos said huskily, reaching out to guide Duncan's mouth back to his.

Their second kiss was less frantic, silken explorations of tongue against tongue, the tender slide of lips, occasional forays against the sandpaper roughness of cheek or chin. Their bodies moved together in a familiar rhythm. Duncan couldn't remember a time when the need had been this urgent, this sharp. He slid a hand down to Methos' waist and tugged his shirt out of his jeans, pushing it up so he could feel the warm satin of skin against his palms. He let his fingers explore, found a nipple and teased it, feeling Methos gasp into his mouth in response. Needing more, he let his hand move to the five slick metal buttons which were amazingly difficult to undo one-handedly. Eventually he succeeded in his quest and the heavy fabric parted, exposing the smooth hardness of Methos' abdomen, the rough silk of pubic curls, and finally the pulsing length of his erect cock.

Breaking their kiss, Duncan went to his knees and tugged Methos' jeans down until they fell around his ankles, freeing his straining shaft from their confinement. Holding that familiar length he turned his head back and forth, dragging his lips across its heat and hardness, then finally he let his lips part and took him, filling his mouth with the salt-sweet taste of his flesh. Methos groaned and reached down to hold Duncan's head, encouraging him with the movements of his hips and hands.

Duncan moved his free hand to the heavy weight of his balls, fingers teasing the sensitive place beneath them. With the fingers of his other hand wrapped firmly around the thick shaft, he used both mouth and hand to set a cadence he knew Methos wouldn't be able to resist. Before his jaw even began to ache, he proved that. Methos' fingers dug painfully into his hair and held him still, a small sound, halfway between a grunt and a moan escaped him, and then he was coming in long, hard pulses.

* * *

Duncan kept him in his mouth until he was spent, then finally released him. Methos whimpered at the kiss Duncan gave his softening flesh, and then began to slowly slide down the wall, his knees finally unlocking. That was all that had kept him on his feet. Duncan moved back as much as he could in the narrow entryway to give him more room, and Methos sank into a squat, his breathing still harsh and rapid, his shirt soaked with sweat, eyes closed. A minute passed, then two, finally Methos drew a deep, ragged breath and opened his eyes.

"Well, hello to you too," he said hoarsely, smiling as he dragged his hands through his hair. "I hope that's not the technique you use to discourage door-to-door salesmen."

Duncan chuckled. "No, that's what the sword's for."

"Ah, good plan." Methos swallowed hard, and took another deep breath. "Damn, if I'd known you'd greet me like that, I wouldn't have waited so long to come visit." He glanced toward the door and his eyes widened in stunned surprise as he realized it was still wide open. "Jesus, MacLeod, you didn't even close the door!"

Mac glanced at the open door and shrugged. "No one comes up here anyway."

"No one except Richie and Joe, and Amanda, and sometimes Anne and the baby."

"They all use the elevator," Duncan pointed out. "Plenty of warning."

"Not to mention various and sundry immortals in search of your head or a quick trip down memory lane." Methos continued.

"We'd get some warning there too." Duncan shrugged.

Methos laughed, shaking his head. "You're amazing. But I feel a bit . . . exposed."

"There's a reason for that," Duncan said, grinning, but he got up and snagged Methos' duffle bag from the floor outside and then pulled the door shut, bolting it securely.

Methos reached out and put his hand over the unmistakable bulge of Duncan's cock, not disguised at all by the soft fabric that covered it.

"Missed me, eh?"

"Like a tooth," Duncan agreed.

Methos looked at him sharply. "Like a what?" he demanded, not sure if he should be insulted or not.

"You know, when you lose a tooth, all you can do is keep sticking your tongue in the hole, because it feels wrong for it not to be there."

Methos stared at him, hoping his feelings weren't written all over his face as he suspected they were. "I know what you mean. I couldn't stand it any more."

"I'm glad." Duncan said quietly.

Methos grinned. "I could tell." He squeezed gently, rubbing, and Duncan almost dropped the duffle bag. With a grin Methos pushed himself to his feet and stepped out of his jeans, toeing off his worn dock-shoes as he did. As he peeled off his shirt, Duncan did drop the bag, and he shoved it out of the way with his foot. As Duncan reached for him, he caught his hand with a stern look.

"Not in the hallway."

Duncan shot a glance toward the bedroom, then at the thick, soft Persian carpet that covered the wood floor in the living room.

Methos chuckled, reading his glance. "That'll do."

Within thirty seconds the green leather couch had been shoved unceremoniously out of the way and they were on the carpet. Duncan removed his tank-style shirt, as Methos slid his hands beneath the waistbands of both his shorts and briefs. Warm, hard, satin-dampness met his touch. He cupped and stroked Duncan's cock, massaging with exquisite care, feeling the jerking response of a man on the edge of losing control. Duncan lay back with a moan of pleasure, lifting his hips so Methos could slide his shorts off and toss them aside. He studied the form before him, the half-closed dark eyes, the fan of dark hair, the shading of shadow-beard following the sculptured curve of a cheekbone down to parted lips that were as sensual as a woman's.

Late-afternoon sunlight poured through the windows and across the floor to highlight the taut tendons of Duncan's throat, the gleaming curve of hard-muscled chest, the scatter of dark silky hair that arrowed down to his navel, pointing like a road-sign to the thick shaft between his heavily-muscled thighs. Methos' fists clenched as he remembered how powerfully those thighs could drive his lover's body into his own, and he was surprised to find himself starting to harden again so soon. He guessed there were things other than hearts that grew fonder with absence . . . or abstinence. Despite a couple of offers, he'd not had sex since Duncan had left Paris. Methos leaned down, grazed Duncan's silky hardness with his lips, and started to take him into his mouth.

"No, I don't want that," Duncan said suddenly, pushing up onto his elbows. "I want you."

Methos lifted his head and read the primitive desire on Duncan's face. He shuddered in anticipation and nodded, stretched out on his side, ready to turn onto his belly.

"Not that way either," Duncan said, coming up onto his knees. Placing a hand on Methos' hip, he pushed him over onto his back. There were a lot of possibilities, so Methos waited for more clarification.

"I want to see your face for once, instead of the back of your head." Duncan said softly, sliding a knee between Methos' thighs, separating them. He crouched over him, his cock brushing tantalizingly against Methos' now erect member, moving in long, languid strokes. Methos caught his hips in his hands, caressing, pulling him down harder as Duncan kissed him, but too briefly. He put his lips against Methos' ear, and whispered.

"I want to watch your face when I'm inside you, I want to see your face when you come."

Face to face. The one thing they hadn't attempted before. The thought sent shivers of anticipation through him. It was awkward, but there were ways. Duncan leaned down to hook his arms under Methos' knees, then sat back, pulling Methos thighs around Duncan's waist. When they settled, Methos' buttocks rested on Duncan's upper thighs, and his knees were bent so that his feet were flat on the floor. He could feel Duncan's cock pulsing against his balls, and he rubbed against it, watching Duncan close his eyes in pleasure. The younger Immortal reached down and slid a finger between his cheeks, his touch a tease, never giving him what he needed. He groaned.

"Duncan, please!"

"You don't have to ask me. You know I'll give it to you." The teasing finger finally started to press inside, then stopped. Duncan swore. "Damn."

"What?" Methos gasped, panting.

"I didn't think, I'm sorry, I haven't got anything to use."

Methos stared at him blankly. What the hell was he talking about? It wasn't like two Immortals needed to have safe sex.

"I have some olive oil in the kitchen," Duncan offered, looking apologetic.

Methos finally realized what he was talking about and shook his head. "We don't need it."

"Yes we do."

"Don't worry, I can take it."

"I don't want you to take it, I want you to love it." He frowned, then suddenly his face cleared and he leaned forward, straining to reach the chess-table where a pile of rags, a bottle of something clear, and a wooden box gave evidence of one of Duncan's projects. He managed to snag the bottle with his fingertips and sat back with a pleased grin, brandishing the bottle. Methos read the label and grinned. Mineral oil.

"That'll work."

Duncan poured a generous amount into his hand, then his fingers were back where they belonged, and pressing in. Methos moaned, feeling his body yield, opening easily to that tender insistence. Twice more that sequence was repeated, then finally he felt Duncan breach him. He let his body relax completely, and felt the gentle, steady pressure as Duncan filled him. There was no pain, just that delicious feeling of becoming one. He gasped as Duncan's hands found his shaft and began to stroke firmly, unable to control the thrust of his hips into Duncan's hand. Duncan made a little 'mmmm' of pleasure, but expression was one of intense concentration, almost as if he were taking a test, not making love. Methos grinned in fond amusement at that. Duncan took everything so seriously, even sex.

Deliberately Methos tightened his gluteal muscles. Duncan made a startled sound and thrust forward, coming a little up off his knees in response. Methos grinned and repeated the motion again and again until Duncan started to pant, his expression going slack as he stopped worrying about performance and began simply to experience. Methos had nearly all the control, and he used it, speeding up, slowing down, moving in ways he knew from long experience were a kind of ecstatic torture.

Duncan's breathing was coming in harsh gasps, his body tense and shaking. Methos knew he was trying to control himself, trying to wait for him. Why deny him what he wanted? He let go of his own control, and moved, pushing himself down onto Duncan, feeling callused hands gentle yet insistent on his throbbing cock. What was he waiting for, anyway, he wondered? He was there, right there. With a soft moan, Methos pumped himself into Duncan's strong hands, and let go. The instant the first pulse of his orgasm hit Duncan's fingers, the Highlander shuddered and gasped.

Methos felt heat flood inside him as Duncan lost his own battle for control, and a sound that was almost a sob escaped him. Methos reached up to touch his mouth, stroking their sensitive fullness. Another sobbing gasp broke across the older Immortal's fingertips, then a third, then finally Duncan took a deep breath and held it for a moment, then let it sigh out. Beneath Methos' hips, Duncan's thighs were trembling as if he'd just run a marathon and the muscles couldn't take any more strain. With sudden insight Methos realized that in essence that was exactly what he'd just done by supporting Methos' weight as well as his own while holding himself in that acutely flexed position. With a twist of his hips Methos lifted away and rolled to one side.

"Stretch out before those muscles cramp up on you," he ordered firmly.

Duncan slowly complied, his expression pained. "Too late," he said ruefully, reaching to rub his left thigh.

Methos pushed his hands away and replaced them with his own, feeling the spasmodic tension under his fingers. "Are they both like this?"

Duncan shook his head. "No, only that one, so far."

Methos nodded and glanced toward the kitchen. "Where's that olive oil you mentioned?"

"Left hand cabinet, bottom shelf."

"Do you have any cayenne?"

Duncan looked perplexed, but nodded. "In the pantry, on the spice rack."

Methos got up and went into the kitchen, turning the faucet on so the water could warm up, and took several clean dishtowels out of the drawer where he remembered Duncan kept them. He dropped them into the steaming water, then got out a small bowl in which he mixed olive oil and cayenne together to form a thin paste. That done, he filled a larger bowl with hot water and put the soaked towels in it. He took a moment to use one of the wet towels to clean himself up before returning to Duncan with the two bowls.

"How is it?"

"About the same," Duncan answered with a grimace. "I've never understood why our healing properties don't fix things like this just as fast as they do other hurts."

"Probably to remind us that we're still human," Methos said with a grin. "Either that or whoever designed us forgot a few things. Lie still."

He dipped his fingers in the cayenne mixture and smeared it over Duncan's thigh, then began to massage it into the tight flesh, careful not to go too high. Duncan watched him, his mouth curving in a quirky smile.

"Is that considered basting or marinating?"

Methos grinned. "I'd say it's more of a glaze, myself."

"Just don't get any on the rug, it'll cost a fortune to clean. . . ouch!" Duncan flinched as Methos' fingers found a knot of tension and dug into it firmly. "Damn it! Are you enjoying that?"

"Of course, you know what a sadist I am. Don't be such a baby, it'll help in the long run."

"If you say so. What's the cayenne for?"

"You'll see." Methos finished his massage and went back into the kitchen where he washed his hands carefully, soaping them several times to remove any cayenne residue. Returning to Duncan's side, he picked up one of the towels, wrung it out, and then placed the damp, steaming fabric across Duncan's thigh. Duncan sighed with pleasure as the warmth began to penetrate his muscles. Squeezing the excess water out of a second towel, Methos flapped it in the air to cool it a little before using it to clean Duncan much as he had himself. It was interesting to handle Duncan in an unaroused state. Even at rest, his cock was gorgeous. Methos closed his eyes, remembering how it felt, remembering the pleasure.

"Hey. . . ." Duncan sounded puzzled. "This feels weird."

Methos smiled and opened his eyes. "I know."

"It's hot."

"I know." He tested the towel on the Highlander's thigh. It had cooled, so he removed it and rolled it into a ball with the other used one, and tossed both into the kitchen sink. Not a bad shot considering the angle and distance. "Two points," he said as he prepared a fresh towel.

"It's hot even with the towel gone." Duncan said, staring curiously at his reddened thigh.

"That's the cayenne."

"Interesting. Where'd you learn that?"

"I don't remember, Galen, perhaps, or Yuhanna Ibn Masawayh." He put the new towel in place. "How's the cramp?"

"Better."

"Good." Methos stood up and went over to where he'd shed his clothes and began to pick them up. As he did, he felt Presence, and turned to Duncan, who wore the distracted expression of an Immortal sensing the proximity of a like being. The elevator motor started up, its mechanical sound loud in the quiet, beginning its journey to the Dojo below.

"Must be Richie," Duncan said, relaxing.

Methos nodded, not particularly pleased. The young man didn't seem to like him much, who knew why? The Kristen thing, maybe or a touch of jealousy from a boy who'd had Duncan to himself for a long time and who might see the upstart Adam Pierson as a rival. Rival. Uh oh. Methos looked at Duncan.

"Have you told him anything about us?" he asked quietly.

Duncan looked puzzled. "Told him. . . ." he tensed again. "Shit. No, I haven't. Not for any reason, it's just that the opportunity hasn't really come up." He reached for his shorts and managed to snag them with a finger.

Methos nodded and quickly yanked his t-shirt over his head and stepped into his jeans, pulling them up and fastening them as Duncan pulled his shorts on. The elevator began to rise, and Duncan looked slightly panicked as he grabbed for his shirt. Methos handed it to him and crouched beside him on the rug.

"Lie down and put the towel back on your leg. You pulled a muscle running, and I'm just playing doctor."

Duncan grinned at that, and acquiesced. The groan he let out as Methos began his massage again wasn't faked, either.

"Still hurts?" Methos queried as the elevator stopped and the gate opened.

"Like a sumbitch," Duncan hissed through clenched teeth.

"Don't overdo it next time. Keeping the muscles in a flexed position for too long is a surefire way to pull a muscle, or at least strain it."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Richie take two steps into the room and stop dead, staring. He looked up nonchalantly. "Ryan," he said, acknowledging his presence.

Richie nodded in return, his eyes narrowed. "Pierson. When did you get into town?"

Methos looked at his watch. "About an hour ago."

"Hey, Rich, what's up?" Duncan asked with wonderful nonchalance.

"Those new weights we ordered came in, thought you might like to take a look." His eyes skimmed the scene curiously as he watched Methos work on Duncan's thigh. "What happened to you?"

"Cramp," Duncan answered.

"Muscle strain," Methos said at the same time.

Methos saw Duncan's lips twitch as he suppressed a smile, but he managed to keep from laughing.

"It's not a strain, it's just a cramp," Duncan insisted.

"Which will be a strain if you don't relax and let me fix it."

Duncan put his hands behind his head and looked back at Richie, seeming completely at ease. "Did you finish the July books?"

Richie nodded, a half-smile curving his mouth. "I did, and all I can say is it's a good thing you don't rely on the Dojo to keep you in beer."

Duncan shrugged, which looked odd, since he was lying flat on his back. "Charlie would have wanted me to keep it going."

Richie's expression softened. "I know, Mac, and we're not doing that badly, we almost broke even last month. If we keep up the self-defense classes for kids and women, we might even turn a profit this month. Especially now that you're back on the teaching roster."

Duncan lifted his eyebrows. "What has my being back got to do with anything?"

Richie grinned. "Don't tell me you hadn't noticed that the women's self-defense classes are always packed when you're the instructor."

Duncan stared at Richie, and to Methos' amazement, he saw a hit of color creep out from under the beard-shadow. Duncan, embarrassed?

"Why am I not surprised?" Methos laughed, shaking his head. "I can think of another market you're missing out on, MacLeod."

Richie looked confused but Duncan got it, and shoved Methos' shoulder with his foot. "Shut up, Meth. . . Adam."

Adam shot a veiled glance at Duncan's protégeé to see if he'd noticed the slip. Apparently not, he seemed to still be mulling over what market Methos might have meant. Methos didn't expect him to have to ask. Richie wasn't stupid, and he'd been on the streets for years before Duncan took him in. It was only a moment before his face lightened as he figured it out and he grinned broadly.

"He might just be onto something there, Mac. Frankly I know some people in that market who could use some self-defense instruction. It's not a bad idea."

"Richie!" Duncan sounded appalled. "We offer classes in self-defense, not beefcake!"

Richie just kept grinning. "Hey, nothin' says we can't kill two birds with one stone. What's wrong with making the most of our ass. . .ets?"

Methos groaned and fell back on the carpet, clutching his chest. "Wounded, shot clean through. Gods, that was awful!"

Richie sketched a bow. "Why, thank you."

"If I find you putting up ads with my picture on them, you're toast, Ryan." Duncan said warningly.

"I wouldn't dream of it!" Richie protested ingenuously. "Word of mouth works much better, anyway."

"Richie!"

Richie sighed, suddenly serious. "Can we make that Rich every now and then? I think it's about time I got to grow up, don't you?"

That question made both Duncan and Methos look at the younger Immortal. He looked quite earnest. Duncan studied him for a long moment, an odd expression on his face, then finally spoke. "I'm sorry, I should have thought of that a long time ago."

The red-head shrugged, his expression strangely old for his youthful face. "It's what you're used to, and it's not really a problem, I just don't want to spend the rest of my life with it. It's who I was, not who I am. I know the old saying ' what's in a name?' but sometimes using a name you've outgrown is as much a lie as using a fake one." He looked pointedly at Methos as he spoke, then looked away again deliberately.

Suddenly convinced there were more levels to his speech than met the eye, Methos sat up, eyeing him suspiciously. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Richie gazed at him steadily. "It's supposed to mean that you can stop pretending. I figured it out."

Methos shot a look at Duncan, who seemed equally at a loss. "Figured what out?" he asked.

"That you're not some newbie who's just Become. I'm not sure just who you are, but I know damned well you're not just a Watcher named Adam Pierson who happens to have become the very thing he's supposed to be watching. I wish you trusted me enough to tell me the truth."

His last sentence was clearly directed at MacLeod, and Methos couldn't let it pass. "Don't blame Duncan, it was my request. You're right. I'm not a ' newbie,' not by a long shot. By keeping my real name quiet, he's protecting me. If my identity got out, half the Immortals in the world would be after me. I probably wouldn't last ten minutes."

"Like you're something special?" Rich scoffed.

"Yes, he is," Duncan said quietly, sitting up and putting a hand on Methos' shoulder. "Very special."

Richie's eyes narrowed, his gaze moving from Duncan to Methos and back before they widened in almost comical surprise. "Oh my God, you're joking!"

Duncan shook his head. "No, I'm not."

"You. . . and him?"

Methos winced. This was not the right way to go about this. Richie stared at them a moment longer, shaking his head.

"Man, I gotta sit down." He proceeded to do so, and stared at Methos again, then at Duncan. "Um, mind if I ask how long? I mean, you weren't. . . before, were you? Last time you were here?"

Methos shook his head. "No, this is fairly recent. Just since Paris."

Richie looked relieved. "Good. I didn't think I was that oblivious." After long seconds, he started to chuckle. "Whoever you are, I gotta admit I'm impressed. I thought Mac was so far down the straight road that he couldn't even see the bend." His gaze finally moved to MacLeod, studying him for a moment. "Well, that explains a few things, doesn't it? I wondered why you'd been so moody lately." He grinned. "You always get moodier when you've got a thing for someone but you're not gettin' any."

"Rich!" Duncan protested, insulted.

"Hey, you don't live with someone for five years and not twig to some of their idiosyncracies," the younger man said bluntly. "Mac, stop thinking of me as a kid. I wasn't a kid when you first took me in, and I'm sure as hell not one now. I don't blame you for that, the age thing has got to be weird from your perspective, but I'm still mad that you didn't trust me."

"It's not that he doesn't trust you." Methos said.

"So what is it, then?"

"I don't trust you. I don't trust anyone."

"Except Mac?"

Methos shrugged. "Pretty much."

"That's not quite true," Duncan put in. "There are a couple of others." He looked at Methos questioningly. "May I tell him?"

Methos thought about it, and finally sighed. "I will." He looked at the wiry young man who was leaning forward in his chair, his fingers interlaced between his knees, and stifled his fear. Richie had never betrayed MacLeod. He was safe. Why was it so hard to say? He took a breath, and forced the words out. "I'm Methos."

"Methos?" Richie repeated his name, looking thoughtful. "Methos." He looked a Duncan curiously "I don't remember hearing. . . ." his voice trailed off and his mouth dropped. "Methos? The Methos?"

Methos made a face. "Ah, yeah, I guess you could say that, though since you're a friend of a friend, you can skip the prefix."

Richie stared at him blankly for several seconds, then shook his head. "Well shit," he said, then he fell silent again for a bit. Finally he spoke again. "I guess I can understand you not wanting to tell a lot of people."

Methos smiled wryly. "Yeah, it's not exactly something I want getting around. Plus there's my Watcher cover, that's my real refuge, and I don't want to lose it."

Richie nodded, looking thoughtful, then frowned. "If that's such a big deal, how come you're always hanging around with Mac? Won't they think it's pretty strange for one of their guys to be on a latch-key basis with an Immortal?"

Methos sighed. "That, my friend, is a very good question."

"Joe knows, doesn't he?"

"He does."

"Who else?"

Duncan looked at the floor. "Amanda."

"Amanda!" Richie's face was a study in outrage. "You told her and you wouldn't tell me? Now I really am insulted! Geez!"

Methos glanced at Duncan. "She found out kind of accidently. It wasn't my choice."

"Accidently?"

"I didn't realize I should keep my mouth shut," Duncan said. "I told her, before Methos asked me not to tell anyone."

"Ah," Richie nodded, looking slightly mollified. "I see. Yeah, that makes sense. Mac's not much for subterfuge. Sometimes I wonder how he's survived this long."

Methos shot a glance at Duncan, who was looking offended again, and grinned. "Must be luck, though it hardly seems fair to have looks and luck both."

Richie made a face. "You said it. Hey. . . ." he suddenly studied Methos with narrowed eyes. "If you're Methos, then it was you who knew what to do for Mac when he- when he took Coltec's head. He told me that you, I mean Adam, found the story in one of Methos' chronicles, but since you're him, you must have gone through something similar yourself."

For a moment ancient scars ached dully, and Methos sensed Duncan's concerned gaze on him as he realized with astonishment that the old terror was almost gone. Where before even such an innocent question would have sent him spiraling into fear and depression, now he could face what pain there was with his eyes open and his heart unclouded. Duncan's hand on Methos' shoulder tightened in silent support as Methos nodded, searching for the words he needed.

"Yes, I did. It was a very long time ago, and not exactly the same thing that Mac experienced. Still, it was similar enough that I knew what he needed to do and I was able to give him the key to that knowledge. However, it was up to him to take what I'd given and find a way to use it."

The young man studied him for a moment, then smiled. "Guess I'm going to have to find a way to repay you bigtime. When you gave him that key, you gave me back my father."

"Ah, Rich," Duncan's voice was thick with emotion. "How can you say that when I tried to kill you?"

The younger immortal shook his head, gazing steadily at him. "We've been through that at least five times already, Mac. As far as I'm concerned, that was just somebody borrowing your body for awhile. The Duncan MacLeod I know would never take my head, at least not without just cause. But if I ever go over to the dark, I fully expect you to take care of the problem, one way or another."

"Don't joke about that, don't even think about it!" Duncan grated out.

"I mean it." Richie said evenly.

"That's what scares me," Duncan said. "Richie. . . I mean, Rich, I still don't see how you can trust me. I can't even trust myself."

Methos sighed. "How many times do we have to go through this, Duncan? Richie just told you the exact same thing I've told you a dozen times, and you still won't let yourself accept it! I think we all, at least the older of us, have to go through something like this in our lives. Just because it's happened once doesn't mean it's going to keep happening! You defeated it! You were stronger than the darkness!"

"Yeah, like Conan said, ' that which does not kill us makes us stronger,'" Richie put in. When both Methos and Duncan stared at him, he looked a little wary. "What? What'd I say?"

Methos shook his head sadly. "Duncan MacLeod, I'm ashamed of you. How could you let your own son grow up so ignorant?"

"It's not my fault!" Duncan protested. "He was already like this when I found him!"

"Yeah, but you know better. You know what books he should be reading!"

"You try and make a kid read the books he should read instead of the ones he wants to read!"

"WHAT?" Richie bellowed in exasperation. "Tell me what I did! And if you two are going to talk about me like I'm not here, I'm leaving!"

"It's Nietzsche, Friedreich Nietzsche, not Conan the Barbarian," Methos said, rolling his eyes.

Richie colored. "Oh. Well, that's where I heard it."

"That's where you saw it, you mean. I've seen the movie too, you know, it was a visual, and it was credited."

"Like I'm supposed to remember that?"

"Yes, you are." Duncan said, shaking his head. "Methos is right. I'm going to have to at least get you to read the great books so you're not an embarrassment to yourself."

Richie glared at him. "I didn't embarrass me, you guys did."

"But even you have to admit that we wouldn't have had the opportunity to do so without a little help on your part." Methos said.

Richie sent him a dark look. "Just what I needed. Someone else to tell me what to do, and even worse, to be right all the time."

Methos held out both hands like a traffic cop trying to stop an oncoming car. "Whoa, absolve me of omniscience! I'm old enough to know there's no such thing! Look, both Duncan and I have been where you are, so yeah, on this point maybe we've learned something practical. If you want to make a good impression, you need to know what you're talking about, right?"

Richie thought about that, and finally sighed. "Yeah, you've got a point. Okay, make me a list. I'll start reading."

"But you won't enjoy it, right?" Methos asked, grinning.

"Exactly." Richie agreed, grinning back. "You know, you're not as irritating as I remembered."

Methos' eyebrows went up. "Excuse me?"

"Last time you were here, I thought you were kind of. . . smug."

"Oh that." Methos shrugged. "Well, I am, but once you get to know me, it's kind of endearing."

Richie snorted. "Yeah, right. Mac, are you going to come look at those weights or not? If not, I'm going to put them away and finish up downstairs."

"I think not right now, thanks."

Richie nodded as he stood up. "Okay, see ya. I've got dinner with Maria, but we were thinking of going to Joe's for the late set. Maybe we'll see you there?"

Duncan sent a questioning glance at Methos, who nodded. "We'll probably put in an appearance."

"Great," the red-head headed back over to the elevator and stepped inside, closing the cage. "I'll just leave you two alone, then," he said with a broad wink as he pushed the down button.

Methos chuckled as the elevator sank out of sight. "He's going to be needling us about this forever, you know."

"I know," Duncan sighed. "Believe me, I know."

Methos yawned and stretched. "If we're going to Joe's late tonight, I need a nap. Mind if I borrow the bed?"

Duncan grinned. "Not at all, but be prepared to share."

"Always, but I said nap, as in rest."

"I heard you," Duncan said innocently. "What did you think I meant?"

Methos shook his head, and headed for the bedroom. Duncan's voice stopped him, sounding a little wistful.

"He called me his father."

Methos smiled gently, knowing exactly how much that one word meant to Duncan. "I know, I heard."

* * *

As it turned out, Richie ended up at Joe's without Maria. She'd had to go home, having just been assigned a shoot early the next day. He was glad that things had worked out for her, especially considering that he'd almost gotten her killed. He still didn't like to think how close that had been. He'd been thinking with his dick, despite Duncan's best efforts to get him to use his brain instead. If it hadn't been for Adam- or rather, Methos, Kristen would have succeeded and Maria would be dead. Explaining that whole thing to Maria had been an exercise in creativity. He couldn't just tell her about Immortals, so he'd had to make up a lot of stuff about Kristen getting killed in a robbery attempt after she'd tried to murder Maria.

He still couldn't believe that Adam was Methos, the legendary ' 5K' immortal. The guy looked like anyone, which might actually be the secret of his success. Being nondescript had to have some advantages. Duncan was almost too unique, people tended to remember him, and that could be dangerous. For once Richie found himself grateful for his own less flamboyant appearance. He thought again about Adam being Methos, and shook his head in amazement. Of course, there was also that other thing. It made sense that someone born five thousand years in the past would have a rather different moral standard than one born only four hundred years ago, or even a mere twenty-some, but the idea that Methos had managed to swing Duncan off the straight-and-narrow was a little staggering. He thought he'd handled it well, but it still boggled him slightly.

He was still thinking about that as he walked into the bar. Immediately he was hit by a wall of Presence, and shook himself slightly, looking for Duncan and Methos. Oddly, he didn't see them. He glanced around and saw both Mike and Joe behind the bar. There was a slim, blonde woman sitting across from Joe, her back to Richie. Carefully trying to sense which of the bar's patrons emanated the unmistakable signature of Immortality, Richie crossed the room to the bar proper. The closer he got to Joe, the stronger the feeling got, and he was getting a little confused until the woman turned around, slowly sucking a maraschino cherry off it's stem with lips painted nearly the same color as the fruit. His jaw dropped.

"Amanda?" he gasped, staring at the shining platinum bob she sported.

She finished the cherry, put the stem in her mouth, and moments later withdrew it again, tied neatly in a tiny knot. Richie felt a tremor go through him, a pulse of pure stunned desire. She often had that affect on him, even though he knew she had no intention of ever following through, and he knew damned well she was Duncan's. Despite himself his gaze swept downward, and that made things worse. She was wearing a silvery knit number cut low at the top and high at the bottom, and so tight it was probably illegal in Utah. His gaze lingered on the fullness of her breasts, and then flew upward as he felt his color rise. She winked at him, then turned and smiled triumphantly as she placed the stem alongside five other, similarly tied ones. "That's six, Joe. You owe me a drink."

Joe shook his head, chuckling. "Yes I do. What's your pleasure, ma'am?"

She looked thoughtfully at the collection of bottles behind the bar and tapped a finger against her lips. "I believe I'll have a pousse-cafe."

Joe groaned. "Hell, Amanda, why not ask for a Pan-Galactic Gargleblaster?"

She giggled and shrugged. "Too difficult for you?"

Joe narrowed his eyes. "No!" he proclaimed, turning to grab an assortment of bottles off the shelf. As he worked Amanda turned back to Richie.

"Hello there Mr. Ryan," she purred. "I see Mac's working you hard, you're looking particularly nice these days." She ran her fingers lightly up his chest to his shoulder, making the soft silk of his shirt rub sensually against his skin. He set his teeth and wished he could adjust his jeans without her noticing, but he couldn't so he didn't.

"Thanks, same to you. I like the new do." he pointed at her hair.

She preened. "Do you? Other people say I should go back to dark." She looked pointedly at Joe who ignored her as he frowned over whatever concoction he was preparing.

"I like both." Richie declared, not stupid. "This is a fun change. What are you doing out our way? Last I heard you were going to Cannes."

She sighed and shrugged. "It's just not as fun if I can't steal anything, and I'm trying so hard to be good. Besides, I got lonely."

Lonely. Richie froze in place suddenly, his mouth dry and his palms sweaty. Lonely. Oh no. Warily he tried a question. "Have you seen Duncan yet?"

She shook her head. "No, I rang the apartment from the airport and no one answered, so I came here instead. Sooner or later, everyone shows up here, right?"

"Ah, right. . . Except, I think, you know, Duncan said something about going up to the cabin this weekend." It was a bare-faced lie, but he had his fingers crossed behind his back.

She studied him, raising an eyebrow. "What's the matter with you? Anyone would think you were nervous about something."

"Nothing!" he exclaimed much too quickly. "Nothing at all! I'm just surprised to see you here."

"Oh." She pouted slightly. "And pleased, I hope?"

He grinned, trying to be charming. "Of course, as always. Hey, what do you say we go out and get some dinner?"

Joe turned. "Something wrong with the food here?"

Richie shot him a glare, trying to somehow tell him to butt out. "I thought maybe something a little fancier might be nice. Like Ma Maison, or maybe that new place, the Blue-Star Café."

Joe whistled. "Duncan must've given you a raise."

Richie thought about his bank account and stifled a wince. "Um, something like that. What do you say, Amanda?"

She thought about it for a moment, then shook her head. "To be honest I'm kind of tired of fancy cooking. What I crave is an old fashioned hamburger, with pickles and yellow mustard, and a big heap of fries!"

Richie's heart sank. How the hell was he going to get her out of Joe's before Duncan and Methos showed up? He had no idea how she would react to the fact that her place had been usurped, and by a man at that! He just didn't think it would be pretty. Maybe his best bet was to try to warn them to stay away. He shrugged.

"Okay, fine by me."

"I'll put it on your tab, ' Mr. Ryan,'" Joe said with a grin.

Richie nodded absently and made a show of looking at his watch. "Oh, darn, I uh... need to make a phone call. I forgot to tell Maria something. I'll be right back."

He dashed for the pay phone, leaving Joe and Amanda staring after him with puzzled expressions. He shoved a coin into the slot and dialed quickly, praying he was in time. The phone rang, and rang. After six rings the machine picked up. He waited impatiently for the tone.

"Mac, if you're there pick up!" He waited. Nothing happened. He sighed. "Mac, if you're there, you need to stay there, don't come to Joe's! Amanda's he. . . ." his voice trailed off as a new sense of Presence flowed through him. He looked up from the phone to see Duncan enter the room, followed closely by Methos. He sighed. "Never mind, too late."

Richie hung up the phone and watched Amanda fling herself at Duncan with a happy squeal, almost like a little kid. Duncan seemed to be returning her embrace whole-heartedly, kissing her with what appeared to be great enthusiasm. Then, to his stunned surprise, as soon as Duncan released her she turned to Methos and did the same thing. They didn't kiss like acquaintances, or even just good friends. He glanced at Joe, who looked back at him with eyebrows lifted. Apparently he didn't think they were kissing like friends either.

Duncan leaned over and whispered something in Amanda's ear. She broke off the kiss, giggling again. Methos looked smug, just the way Richie hated. Duncan looked around for a table, and spotting one, he headed for it, trailing Amanda, Methos, and Joe like the boy with the golden goose. Richie figured he might as well get in on things too, and he left the phone to join them. Duncan looked around the group, smiling as Richie stole a chair from another table and sat down.

"Well, isn't this nice? Papa bear, Mama bear, Baby bear, Uncle Joe and Uncle Methos too!"

Amanda's sharp gaze went from Duncan to Richie, and there was a sudden movement under the table. Duncan yelped, leaning over to rub his shin with a wounded glance at Amanda.

"Who?" she asked sweetly. "You mean Adam? Are you still playing that silly Methos game?"

Methos reached out and put his hand over hers. "It's okay love, he knows who I am. You don't have to kick Duncan to remind him any more."

Duncan nodded ardently. "I'll second that. What the hell are you wearing on your feet? Sharpened shoes?"

Amanda extended a long, shapely leg and looked critically at the pointed toe of her shoe. A hint of lace peeped out where her skirt barely came down over the thigh-band of her stocking and Richie found himself completely distracted from his surprise at Methos' endearment as Amanda spoke.

"It was effective, wasn't it? I'll have to remember that about this pair." She tucked her leg back under the table and leaned both elbows on the table, resting her chin on her fists, suddenly looking more like a little girl than a than a two-thousand year old seductress. "I'm glad you told him. I never felt right that he didn't know."

"Neither did I, frankly." Duncan echoed.

Methos sighed. "I know, blame me. It's all my fault. I'm paranoid."

Joe grinned. "Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you."

Methos tipped a salute toward the grizzled Watcher. "So true."

Amanda looked from Methos to Duncan and back again, an odd little smile curving her mouth. "I'm surprised to find you here, Methos, instead of skulking around some dreary Watcher library in Paris." Her voice sounded just as odd as her smile looked.

He chuckled, glancing at Duncan. "Yes, I imagine you are."

Richie tensed, but the revelation he expected didn't come. Instead, Amanda spoke again.

"Guess I'll just have to sleep on the couch, unless Richie or Joe will put me up." She batted her eyelashes flirtatiously.

Duncan laughed, then tried to change it into a cough, not very successfully. "I'm sure we can make some sort of arrangement for you."

Richie looked at Joe, who seemed just as puzzled as he felt himself. There was something weird about this conversation.

"So, what brings you to town, Methos?" Joe asked.

He shrugged. "I got bored in Paris. All the people I want to see are here."

Joe chuckled. "Well, isn't that nice? I didn't know you thought of us so fondly."

Methos smiled. "You do now."

As the conversation continued, Richie felt the brush of a bare foot against his knee under the table, and he inhaled a startled breath, his eyes widening. Amanda sent him an apologetic glance and the foot moved away. A moment later Methos suddenly sat up a little straighter and shot a look at Amanda that spoke volumes. Richie reached into his pocket and took out a quarter, idly spinning it on the table top. After a few successful attempts, he "accidently" sent it shooting off the edge of the table and leaned down to retrieve it. As he'd half-expected, he saw Amanda's foot retreating quickly from a perch between Methos' thighs.

Somehow he managed to not be grinning by the time he straightened, but it was a feat. Now he understood, now things were beginning to make sense. He hadn't quite been able to imagine Duncan MacLeod without a woman somewhere in the equation, but Duncan with a man _and_ a woman, well that was certainly quite plausible. Damn. It was going to be awhile before he could stand up. Though he thought of Duncan in a parental fashion, he had no such filial thoughts about Amanda, and his imagination was going just a little wild. He started counting backward from one hundred and filled his mind with thoughts of watching golf, or shuffleboard. After a couple of minutes the ache began to ease and he could feel his temperature falling. He looked over at Amanda, and despite his best efforts he felt a huge grin spread across his face. She eyed him innocently for a moment, then suddenly her eyes narrowed.

"You were trying to get me out of here before they showed up, weren't you?" she accused.

Richie shrugged apologetically. "Guilty."

She smiled and reached over to squeeze his hand. "Thank you, it was sweet of you to make the attempt, but it wasn't necessary."

"No, I guess not. But they didn't tell me _that_."

She arched an eyebrow. "Well, it's not gentlemanly, you know."

Joe looked utterly confused now. "What are you two talking about?"

In counterpoint harmony, Richie, Amanda, Duncan and Methos all chorused: "Nothing." They couldn't have done it better if they'd rehearsed.

Joe's eyes narrowed. "All right, that does it. What the hell is going on around here?"

Looks were exchanged between the three older Immortals. When no explanation was forthcoming, Joe glared at Richie.

"Okay, then you tell me," the Watcher demanded, his expression rife with frustrated curiosity.

Richie shook his head, spreading his hands as if to push the question away. "No way man. I want to keep my head."

Apparently the others had experienced some sort of silent communion, for Duncan sighed. "This is off the record, Joe."

Joe pushed back from the table a bit and leaned on the arm of his chair, studying them. "Off the record, hunh? I take it you want the Watcher hat to come off?"

Duncan nodded. Joe stared thoughtfully at him for a moment, then chuckled and shook his head ruefully. "Oh hell, you know me. I think at this point I've left more out of your damned chronicle than I've put in. Okay, off the record."

"We- ah- well." Duncan looked at Methos for help.

Methos grinned. "Go on, you're doing so well."

Duncan looked disgusted. "I'll get you for that later." He turned back to Joe and tried again. "When we were in Paris, we kind of- well-"

Amanda rolled her eyes. "We've got a thing going," she said succinctly, rescuing the hapless Scot.

Joe lifted an eyebrow. "That's supposed to be news? You two have been an item off-and-on since, what, the sixteen-hundreds?"

Amanda rolled her eyes. "Not us, _us_," she waved a hand in a gesture that included both Methos and Duncan.

Joe's elbow slipped off the arm of the chair, causing him to lurch sideways. "WHAT!" he thundered, loud enough to draw stares from all the nearby tables.

Duncan dropped his face into his hand, probably hiding both embarrassment and amusement. Amanda patted Joe's arm soothingly as he straightened, and Methos just looked faintly amused by it all. Richie knew he was grinning again but couldn't seem to stop. Joe looked from one of the trio to the next, shaking his head slightly, then he signaled for the waitress, who came quickly, obviously curious.

"I need a double bourbon, straight up. And get these guys whatever they want, it's on me. They deserve it, I'm not easy to surprise."

There was a break in the conversation as orders were placed, then Joe stared around the table again, sourly.

"You would have to make me promise not to put this in the Chronicle. All I can say is you'd better be discreet! I do not want to have to hear about this from Amanda's Watcher, or from someone who wants to know what the hell our research associate is doing in bed with two Immortals!"

"Relax, Joe. We're the souls of discretion," Methos promised.

Joe snorted. "Since when?" He shook his head again. "Geez, I'm gonna get whiplash at this rate. All I can say is I'm not looking forward to your first lover's quarrel."

Amanda shrugged. "Oh, we got that out of the way ages ago. Nobody even died!"

"Though it was hell getting the bloodstains out of the decking," Methos put in dryly.

At Joe's shocked look, Duncan chuckled, shaking his head. "Relax, Joe, he's joking."

Joe's expression told Richie he thought Duncan was lying, but he settled down and accepted his drink from the waitress as she returned with a laden tray. He sipped the bourbon thoughtfully and eyed his companions speculatively, then shook his head as if deciding against asking whatever he'd been planning to ask. Things got quiet, awkwardly so. Richie sipped his beer while Amanda played with her pousse-cafe, mixing it into an undrinkable mess. Methos sat looking thoughtful, he hadn't ordered anything. Duncan's gaze swept the table, then he tossed back his scotch and stood up.

"Well, we just stopped in to say hello, I think we'll go on now."

Joe nodded. "I thought you might."

Methos got up as well. "Nice seeing you, I'll stop by soon."

Joe acknowledged that and Methos turned and started toward the door. Duncan took a step, then looked at Amanda and held out his hand. "Coming?"

The smile on her face was blinding. Richie felt a moment of pure male envy as she bounced to her feet and took Duncan's hand. She was three steps away when she suddenly stopped, tugging her hand from Duncan's as she returned to the table. She leaned down and kissed Richie on the cheek, whispering "You're sweet." before she turned to Joe and gave him a kiss too, then rejoined Duncan. As they walked away, Joe sighed deeply.

"That's a hell of a woman there."

Richie sighed too, and nodded agreement. "That she is."

Joe chuckled. "I guess she'd have to be to handle those two."

Without thinking, Richie said the first thing that came into his head. "I don't think she's all those two are handling."

Joe turned swiftly, his blue eyes laser-bright with curiosity. "Just what does that mean?"

Shit. Foot-in-mouth disease strikes again. "I uh... nothing."

"Oh no you don't, you ain't gettin' away with that, Ryan. What do you know that I don't?"

Richie sighed. "Well, see, this afternoon I almost walked in on something that would have been a little... personal. And Amanda was nowhere around."

Joe's eyes widened. "Oh yeah?"

Richie nodded. Joe stared off at the door again, and shook his head, smiling. "Methos and Duncan? I guess it's true what they say about still waters goin' deep."

Richie stared at him, trying to decide if the double entendre had been deliberate, and finally decided not. He took a long drink of his beer and tried not to let his imagination kick in.

* * *

Amanda stretched out across the back seat of the Thunderbird, having magnanimously given Methos the front since his long frame just didn't fit in the back comfortably. She looked from one to the other of the men in front of her, smiling. God, she'd missed them! At first she'd put her moping around Cannes down to the fact that she was being law-abiding, but in fact, that had little to do with it. Finally she'd admitted to herself that she'd gotten used to having them around. That had spurred her decision to find Duncan, with the idea that hopefully they could convince Methos to join them.

She grinned, studying the back of Methos' head. That step hadn't been necessary. Apparently he'd come to a similar conclusion on his own. It was a pretty strange coincidence, though, that they'd both ended up in Seacouver on the same day. A thought suddenly occurred to her, and her eyes narrowed. Methos was a Watcher of sorts. Hmm. She leaned forward into the gap between the seats and spoke to be heard over the engine noise.

"Isn't it funny that both Methos and I ended up here the same day?" she asked innocently.

Methos turned toward her, though because of the seat arrangement he couldn't really look at her fully. "You know, I was thinking that very thing," he answered.

She couldn't tell from his voice if he was lying or not. He sounded a little amused, but then, he usually did. Damn. Though the very idea of Watchers annoyed her, she sort of liked the idea that he'd kept track of her through his connections. It made her feel wanted. She had gone into the relationship mostly because of Duncan, but Methos had definitely grown on her. His ironic sense of humor and pragmatism appealed to the part of her that wasn't quite comfortable with Duncan's innate nobility.

It was so rare to find someone older than she was who didn't just want to take her head! It was fun to be in the position of learning rather than teaching, and even more fun to do both at once- and Methos was as apt a teacher as Duncan was a pupil. She definitely enjoyed his lessons. She shivered delicately, remembering, and wished Duncan would hurry up and get them home.

"Not that I'm looking a gift horse in the mouth, but it does seem a bit. . . coincidental." Duncan said, and the curve of his cheek and mouth told her that he was grinning.

Methos looked at him, then back at Amanda, and sighed. "All right, all right, I confess. It wasn't a coincidence. I heard that Amanda was on her way here and I had to decide if I wanted to stay in Paris or come here and be with you two. It was a tough decision, I really had to think about it."

"For all of two minutes," Duncan said, amusedly.

Methos nodded. "Believe me, it was one hundred and twenty seconds of pure hell."

Amanda laughed and reached forward to tousle his hair. "I'm glad you came, but how are we supposed to keep you a secret if my Watcher's in town?"

Methos grinned. "Oh, you don't have to worry about her."

"What did you do to her?" Amanda asked breathlessly, imagining the poor girl locked up in some Parisian garret.

"Nothing, really. We got to talking and she was complaining that she wanted to spend time with her fiance, so I did a little complaining about having to always work in the damned library. Strangely, we realized we had a perfect solution at hand! We traded jobs for awhile. I write the reports on you and submit them under her name, she does my research and submits it under mine. Voila! Everyone's happy and no one's the wiser."

Duncan laughed. "No wonder you assured Joe that no one would find out! But won't her superiors be bound to notice a certain. . . stylistic difference?"

"I have some of her old reports to crib style from, which should be no problem for someone of my literary talents."

"Speaking of which, you never have told us your nom-de-plume!" Amanda complained.

"Nor do I intend to! Critics I don't need."

"What makes you think we'd be critics?" Duncan objected.

"I know you two." Methos pitched his voice higher and imitated Amanda's speech-patterns. "This isn't accurate! La Pompadour's real hair was brown, not auburn, and that story about the mice in her wig was entirely fabricated!" Dropping his voice down into a lower register and assuming a Scots brogue, he played at being Duncan. "Och, mon, ye canna' go about makin' accusations like tha' about pairfectly innocent border raids, ye damned spalpeen!"

Amanda giggled. "Okay, you're right. We probably would."

Methos looked to Duncan, who was still smiling at the impersonation.

"She's right, and so are you. I'm afraid it would be hard to resist."

"I rest my case."

Duncan concentrated on traffic for a moment as he made a left turn into the Dojo parking lot and pulled into his space. Setting the brake he looked thoughtful for a moment, then turned to Methos curiously.

"What the hell is a spalpeen, anyway?" he asked.

Methos shrugged. "How should I know? You're the Scot!"

"It's a rascal," Amanda put in from the back seat. "And it's Irish, not Scottish. See? My complaints about your accuracy were entirely justified!"

That set them all laughing as they piled out of the car and headed into the building. They went up the back stairs that led directly to the apartment. Amanda felt a burgeoning excitement as she followed Duncan up the stairs. As Duncan unlocked the door (what was taking him so long, anyway?) Amanda felt Methos standing close behind her, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath against his neck.

She realized that he had to have bent down to do that... otherwise she'd feel it against the top of her head. She imagined his mouth hovering close to her skin and closed her eyes against the shiver that took her, and then shivered again as his lips finally touched the soft spot behind her ear. Involuntarily she reached out for support and found her hands against Duncan's back.

Never one to waste an opportunity, she slid her hands under his arms, and splayed her fingers over the hard masculine curves of his chest, stroking him through the ancient t-shirt he wore. Sometimes his fashion sense left a little to be desired, but in this case she'd forgive him. The old fabric was silky-soft and so thin she could feel the rise of his nipples through it. For a moment they just stood there, absorbing the feel and scent of each other, then Methos lifted his head and cleared his throat.

"Will you please get that door open, MacLeod? I am _not_ doing this in the hallway again."

' Again?' Amanda wondered. What had they been up to before she got in? She made a mental note to find out. Duncan finally managed to get the key in the lock. . . funny, he didn't usually have that problem, she thought with a sly smile. He opened the door and they nearly fell into the apartment, ending up in a tangle of limbs and laughter. As they sorted themselves out, Methos shook his head with a wry smile.

"You'd think at my age I'd have a little more dignity, wouldn't you?"

"Dignity ain't all it's cracked up to be." Amanda said, proceeding to prove it as she pinched Duncan's behind. He yelped and glared at her, rubbing the offended portion of his anatomy. She grinned.

"Love hurts?" she asked innocently.

"No, but you're going to if you're not careful!" he returned menacingly, reaching for her.

Amanda ducked behind Methos with a squeal. Methos looked around with a puzzled air.

"Have you got mice, MacLeod?"

"No mice, but I think there may be a pretty little rat in here," Duncan returned, grinning as he circled around Methos, stalking Amanda.

Giggling, Amanda tried to keep Methos between them, but didn't count on him defecting as her shield. He grabbed her by one wrist and spun her around, pulling her back against him and holding her there with one arm across her midriff as Duncan advanced on her. She squirmed ineffectually, eyes widening as the Highlander's grin grew astonishingly evil. Where the hell had that expression come from? It was almost scary. If she didn't know him as well as she did, she might have even felt a twinge of fear. As it was, she tensed as his hands found her shoulders, then relaxed as they slid gently downward over her breasts, fingers flicking her nipples into aching erectness.

She arched, her head falling back against Methos' shoulder as she did. Duncan leaned down and let his lips roam the exposed length of her neck, his fingers still circling her nipples. His tongue flickered out to taste her, marking a necklace of sensation across the base of her throat, right where an Immortal was most vulnerable. A shudder shook her to her core, heat blazing through her, making her insides clench with want. Duncan claimed her open mouth with his and leaned into her, sliding a knee between her thighs and forcing her upward.

Reading his need, she reached back to curl her arms over Methos' strong shoulders for support, and brought her legs up, locking them around Duncan's hips. He was hard and heavy in the open cradle of her thighs and she could feel Methos equally erect behind her. Wildly aroused, she rolled her hips, feeling both of them react, sucking on Duncan's mouth and wanting far, far more. One of Methos' hands left her midriff and slid between her body and Duncan's, cupping her mons, separating her from the heat and pressure of Duncan. He teased her for a moment, fingers stroking the damp silk of her briefs before deliberately pulling her back against him and inexorably away from Duncan. Reluctantly she released Duncan from between her thighs, and let her mouth leave his with a sigh.

"What'd you go and do that for?" she asked the older Immortal petulantly.

"I said I'm not doing this again and I meant it," Methos said. "What is it with you and the damned hallway, MacLeod?"

Duncan looked around as if just now becoming aware of their location, and chuckled, his eyes alight with desire and amusement. "Well, it's long, narrow, dark... I don't know, what do you think?"

Against her back Amanda felt Methos laugh, but when he spoke he sounded faintly disgusted. "Spare me the Freudian symbolism and let's go to bed. I don't know about you two but I like to be comfortable."

Duncan lifted an eyebrow. "That's an understatement if ever I heard one."

Methos shrugged as he started for the bedroom. "Hey, after five-thousand years you get set in your ways."

Duncan looked meaningfully at Amanda, and she read the challenge in his gaze and nodded, accepting it. He grinned that evil grin again at her nod. She looked around the room assessingly.

"Where? The stairs?" she asked in a conspiratorial whisper.

Duncan looked at them thoughtfully, then grimaced and shook his head. "Good thought, but I'm not really up for having hexagonal grid patterns imprinted on my butt."

Amanda stifled a giggle and looked around again. "You know MacLeod, your apartment really doesn't lend itself to this idea."

He nodded ruefully. "It doesn't, does it? Damn, this is harder than I thought it would be."

"Are you two going to stand about all night?" Methos called from the bedroom.

Amanda thought about the bedroom furnishings and couldn't come up with anything for a moment, then she grinned. "I have it!" Quickly she whispered her idea to Duncan, who winced.

"You're an evil woman, Amanda, I like that about you. Go on in, get started. I'll be there in a bit. Tell him I'm getting drinks. I'll find something to delay me to give you time to get things set up."

She winked and headed for the bedroom, skinning her dress off over her head as she walked.

* * *

Methos had begun to wonder what his paramours were up to when Amanda finally came into the room. She had her dress in her hands, and he found himself gawking like an adolescent at her lithe body sheathed in nothing more than mist-gray silk bikini briefs and a pair of silvery stockings. He wondered for a moment what was holding them up, as she wore no garter belt, and finally decided they must be anti-gravity. It took him a good thirty seconds to realize Duncan hadn't followed her into the room. He looked past her, eyebrows raised.

"Lose someone?"

She looked over her shoulder and shrugged, which did amazing things to her breasts. "He was thirsty."

Methos swallowed drily. "So am I."

She dropped her dress and kicked off her shoes, then hooked her thumbs in the sides of her panties and pushed them down until they fell to the floor. "I'm sure you are," she purred silkily as she stepped out of them and advanced on him like a snow leopard on a rabbit.

He had already taken off his shirt and shoes, and her hands went unerringly to his jeans, opening them with a sideways tug that somehow peeled open the buttons as easily as a zipper. He wondered where she'd learned that trick, then decided he probably didn't want to know. He closed his eyes as her hands skimmed his hips, pushing the denim down, then moved forward to cup his freed erection. Amanda's touch was delicate and teasing, very like her, and so different from Duncan's rough honesty. He appreciated both of them in very different ways.

She leaned forward and put her lips against his ear, tongue licking delicately at the inner surface for a moment before she whispered. "Step out of your jeans, lover."

He shivered a little at the heat of her breath against moist skin, and smiled, complying. Once he was free of them, she began to walk forward, forcing him backward with each step until he felt the edge of the bed behind his knees. He started to lean down, only to have her stop him, her eyebrows lifted imperiously.

"Did I say you could sit down?"

He shook his head mutely, trying not to grin at her "Ilse the She Wolf" mannerism.

"I didn't think so." she continued. "Stay right where you are." She leaned forward again and ran her tongue along the seam of his lips, then drew back slightly. "Thirsty, hmmm?"

He nodded, and she tongued him again, this time teasing his lips open, so she could slick her agile way inside. He reached for her, only to have her draw back. "Ah, ah, ah! I didn't say ' Simon says.'"

He played along, and she leaned back in, so close her breasts flattened against his chest, and the slick scratchiness of her stockings against his thighs sent shocks of pleasure through him. Finally she kissed him again, using both hands to pull his head forward, crushing his mouth harshly against her own. The kiss went nuclear very fast, and she moved against him in a dancer's shimmy. They were shocked apart suddenly when the phone rang, and they heard Duncan swear as he picked it up in the other room.

Panting slightly, Amanda studied him, then smiled cattily and put her hand against his shoulder, pushing lightly until he got the message and turned with her, reversing their positions. She ran a finger lightly down his chest, and then abruptly sat down on the bed, looking like a naughty Victorian postcard. He wondered briefly if she might have posed for some as she reached up to take his hands and tug him to his knees beside the bed. He didn't need instructions after that. He knew exactly what she wanted. In the background he could hear Duncan talking, obviously still on the phone, and for a moment he hesitated. Amanda shook her head, smiling.

"He won't mind. Really. You've got to get over that."

Methos flushed, embarrassed to be caught. "I know, it's just, I worry sometimes. . ."

"We settled that, remember? He's learned how to share his toys."

Methos remembered, very well in fact. Share and share alike. He gave up his worry and put his hands on her thighs, pushing them apart. She grinned and fell back on her elbows, waiting. He inched his hands upward until the nylon gave way to flesh, and she shivered as his fingers skimmed the sensitive insides of her thighs.

"Nice." she said, encouraging him.

He slid his hands beneath her to cup her buttocks and pull her forward to the very edge of the bed, then tipped her pelvis slightly upward. He felt her tense in anticipation, and his smile deepened. He waited, waited, until her squirm told him she was ready, and then he let his tongue open her to his mouth. She shuddered and gasped. He moved his hands, using one to keep her at the perfect angle while the other found the fluid well of her body so he could ease two fingers into her narrow sheath. She moaned and tossed, her hips rocking under his touch.

She tasted of mystery, shadows, and laughter. Her pulse beat all around him, against his cheek, against his lips, around his fingers. His own pulse quickened, seeming to echo inside him. A sense of urgency built, his own arousal intensifying as hers did, his body hard and throbbing. He deepened his kiss, his tongue flickering over the taut pearl of sensation at the top of her cleft until he heard her sobbed command.

"S-s-stop! Stop now!"

He lifted his head, puzzled, and found her gazing at him with fire in her dark eyes.

"Stand up," she whispered.

Almost hypnotically, he complied. With her gymnast's flexibility she got her feet on the edge of the bed and lifted her hips, offering herself to him. He almost groaned, and wondered what the hell Duncan was doing on the phone when he was needed here.

"Methos, please?" Her voice was husky with need.

Gods. . . there was no stopping this now. He stepped into her offering and took her hips in his hands as he brushed his aching cock against the dark curls between her thighs, their darkness a startling contrast to the silver halo of her hair on the indigo bedspread. He teased for a moment until she pushed herself onto him and he had no choice but to obey her desire. Silky heat sucked him in, a rippling glide that took his breath away. He rocked, easing deeper, his breath coming faster. Suddenly a warm hand was on his shoulder, and he gasped, startled, almost pulling free. Duncan's hand slid from his shoulder to press firmly against his lower back, pushing him back into Amanda's yielding depths as his teeth nibbled at the back of Methos' neck.

"Couldn't wait for me?" he whispered, sounding amused. "Can't say that I blame you, not with an offer like that."

"I wanted to wait," Methos managed, trying to maintain enough control to speak. "But you know how she is."

Duncan chuckled, and the feel of it against his neck sent shivers down Methos' spine. "I do indeed. It's kind of a turn on to watch, you know." The hand on his back moved lower still, cupping one buttock.

Methos bit his lip in anticipation, knowing what was coming next, hoping he knew, anyway. He almost sobbed in relief as he felt warm, slick fingers working to open him, teasing. The scent of olive oil took him back centuries, unbearably erotic in this context. Finally Duncan's hands moved to hold him steady as he pressed his entry, his own body already bare and sleek with the fragrant oil.

The oldest Immortal had no other thought but to yield as he was entered, his being utterly infused by his lovers. They had managed to surprise him, and being trapped between them was maddeningly delicious. A single sob slipped the bounds of his control, but they all knew it didn't speak of pain. Slowly Amanda lowered her hips until they rested on bed once more, drawing the other two inexorably down with her.

Methos nearly lost his balance and his hands shot out to brace on the bed on either side of Amanda, his eyes flying open as Duncan leaned into him, very gently beginning to move, the hard length of him nestling deep. Methos thought for just a moment that his knees would buckle, but somehow they held and the three of them began to move together, finding the way to make it work, finding the rhythm. It was good, no, beyond good, fabulous. Slow and easy, almost languid, they flowed like a sea-tide, surging and retreating.

When the trembling began, it startled him for a moment, wondering why his legs were shaking. The absorption of their mutual pleasuring was so intense that it took him a while to realized that the heat he felt surging up his thighs and across his back was distracting, even uncomfortable. It took a moment longer to realize that what he felt was the burn of muscles reaching their limit. He shifted his feet wider, trying to change the stresses on his body, and didn't succeed. Part of him wanted to stay like this, to keep the tidal surge going until he peaked, but his body fought a losing battle against the awkwardness of the position. He shifted again, trying vainly to find a way to ease it. Duncan's hands caressed his hips, slick with oil, and he bent forward even more to put his mouth near Methos' ear.

"Comfortable?" he asked silkily.

Methos stared down at Amanda as the word registered, read the mischief in her gaze, and realization hit him. He groaned, shaking his head in disbelief. "You planned this!" he accused. Amanda's smile widened and she did something with her body that would have made him come if his back hadn't been hurting. "I can't believe you did this on purpose!" he gasped.

"You can't?" Duncan asked, his hips moving, his body an erotic counterpoint to the pain.

Methos almost laughed. "Forget I said that."

"We will," Duncan said amiably.

Methos swore, a splendid collection of mostly consonants that he had picked up in Sumeria. Amanda looked impressed.

"What did you just say?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"I cast aspersions on your antecedents, something about dung-beetles, if I remember correctly," he said. "Damn it, this is really starting to hurt."

"Don't worry," Duncan soothed. "We would never let you suffer for long. Amanda, would you clear a spot?"

She scowled. "Why me?"

"I thought you might like to end up on top, not on the bottom."

She thought about that and her expression brightened. "You're right."

As her warmth slowly slid from around him Methos moaned, feeling cold and bereft, though Duncan's presence mitigated that more than a little. The only good thing about her absence was that he could finally straighten up. Though the muscles still trembled, the pain in his back and thighs eased. He sighed in relief, leaning back, letting Duncan take part of his weight, an act that caused certain other interesting side effects. He felt a tremor go through Duncan, and felt his hands tighten on his thighs. Methos smiled, thinking turnabout was definitely fair play.

"God, that's nice..." Duncan sighed in his ear. They moved a few strokes, regaining some of their lost arousal, then Duncan spoke again. "Turn with me," he prompted.

They managed, dancelike, to turn around, then Duncan slowly eased them both down onto the bed, scooting backward with incredibly erotic little movements until they were supported, half-sitting, by the pillows piled against the headboard. Amanda knelt to one side on the bed, waiting impatiently.

"Done?" she asked when Duncan finally stopped moving, his hands massaging the last of the discomfort from Methos' thighs.

"Nowhere near," Methos answered. "Get back over here."

Amanda grinned and moved to straddle them, poised above him, teasing as was her wont. Methos reached for her, and she shook her finger at him and started to tell him no. Narrowing his gaze ominously he grabbed her wrist in one hand and dragged her forward, his other hand finding her hip and pushing her firmly down. Taken by surprise she gave a little squeak that reminded him of Duncan's ' pretty little rat' comment and fell forward, her breasts soft against his chest. The moist heat of her sex was pressed tight against the ache in his groin. He moved his hand from her hip to the soft curve of her buttock and pulled her forward just enough to facilitate his entry.

She didn't resist, in fact, she pushed herself up on his chest and bore down with her hips to take him deeper. As her weight settled onto him, it pushed him down onto Duncan and he gasped, trying to sort out pain from pleasure, waiting for his body to ease. It came after a moment, and he took a deep breath and let it hiss out.

"Okay, you win," he said hoarsely. "Comfortable doesn't matter."

Amanda beamed. "I thought you might come around."

"Not yet, but I'm working on it."

Duncan groaned. "How the hell can you pun at a time like this?"

"Talent," Methos gasped as Amanda took the initiative and began to move, her sleek heat surrounding him, internal muscles clasping him like a hand. "Oh gods..." He bit his lip, trying not to let on just how good this was. Memories of times like this had woken him in the night ever since they'd gone their separate ways. Memories of pleasure shared, and the even sweeter aftermath of being held between them, and finally, finally belonging somewhere. That was an even deeper pleasure than this.

Amanda stroked his lip with a fingertip, teasing it from between his teeth, then leaned down to kiss him, a deep, slow kiss that combined with the other sensations swamping him, making him arch upward into her welcoming depths. Duncan's fingers on his hips pulled him back down. Amanda urged him up again, only to have Duncan draw him back yet again. Amanda took his hands in hers and put one on her breast, then tucked the other one into the wet tangle of curls where their bodies meshed. His fingers slid, searched, found, and he heard her sigh of pleasure as he manipulated the little knot of nerves there.

Duncan's arms came around both of them, cupping Amanda's buttocks, pulling both of their bodies down harder against his, setting a newer, harsher pace. There was no breath for words, no thought of anything except this merging, everything narrowing down to the soft sounds of delight that none of them could hold back. Duncan thrust upward, his powerful thighs lifting all three of them. His teeth closed on Methos's shoulder and a moan turned to a growl deep in his throat as he peaked.

Amanda shivered and went still above him a moment later, the sound of Duncan's pleasure pushing her over the edge. Knowing they were both replete, Methos gave himself up to his need and let it break. Ecstasy came in pulsing waves, taking every moment of self doubt and loneliness with it. The sparkling sting of healing flesh from the bite on his shoulder added a new note to the pleasure, and he felt tears on his face as he gathered Amanda close, and felt Duncan stroking his hair. They lay in silence for a long time, until finally Duncan broke the stillness.

"God, I love you two. Why did I ever leave you?"

For once no flippant answer rose to his lips, and Methos spoke the truth. "Because we had no choice. We can't stay this way, it's too dangerous."

"It's not fair!" Amanda protested. "It's just not fair!"

"No, it's not," Methos agreed, stroking the damp silver strands of her hair back away from her elfin face. "But then. . ."

"Don't say it." Duncan asked quietly.

Methos nodded. He was right. It didn't need to be said. They were all too aware of it anyway. He sighed, and tried to think of something to say. Nothing came. They were mute awhile longer. Finally Duncan shifted uncomfortably and Methos knew it was time to separate. Amanda read the body language as well, and she sighed and crawled off of the top of the pile and flopped down on her back next to them, freeing Methos and Duncan to move apart.

"Maybe we could pool our money and buy a tropical island somewhere?" she mused. "Get the Universal Life Church declare it holy ground, and make sure no one could come there without our permission. It would be perfect. I could design the security system."

Duncan smiled. "Nice idea, but that would work for a couple of months, then we'd all be bored to death. Face it, love, we need people, we need interaction."

She wrinkled her nose at him. "Spoilsport."

Methos stretched as he stood up and extended a hand to Duncan. "Come on, cleanup time." Duncan clasped his hand and let Methos pull him to his feet.

Amanda yawned and waved lazily. "Have fun."

Duncan looked at Methos, eyebrows raised. Methos grinned back, ready for a little revenge. Methos leaned over and grabbed her ankles as Duncan slid his arms under her shoulders.

"One, two, three."

On Duncan's 'three' they lifted her, squealing in protest, and carried her into the bathroom. Depositing her in the tub, they stepped in to join her before she could jump out.

"One for all. . . ." Duncan said.

"And all for one." Methos finished as he turned on the water.

* * *

_Finis_


	5. Chapter 5

Duncan checked his reflection in the mirror and adjusted his plaid across his bare chest so that the folds hung evenly. He'd taken his hair down and braided a thin plait on either side of his face, and painted an abstract pattern on his face with blue theatrical makeup, woad being in short supply in Seacouver these days. He looked pretty good, even if he did say so himself, and he was certainly more authentic than that Australian fellow, though in reality the Scots had stopped using woad as battle-paint several centuries before William Wallace had been born. He checked the clock, and called out to Richie

"You about ready? They'll be here any minute."

At his call, the bathroom door opened and the younger Immortal stepped out. "Taa-daaa!" he said, turning in a slow circle and spreading his arms so Duncan could see the full effect of the costume.

Duncan lifted an eyebrow. "Henry the Eighth would have loved that codpiece," he commented drily.

Richie grinned sheepishly and reached down to adjust the costume, trying to minimize the bulge a little. "I know, but Jenny's meeting me at Joe's after she gets off work, and she's coming as Batgirl, and told me to be Robin."

"I thought Robin wore green tights and little yellow shorts."

Richie rolled his eyes. "You ought to get out more, you're falling behind on your popular culture."

"I guess I must be."

"We should have a movie night one of these days. No art films allowed."

Duncan chuckled and nodded. "Sounds like a plan. I'll make popcorn, Methos can bring the beer, and no doubt Amanda will supply us with something a little harder."

"And I'll bring the chips and salsa," Richie said, then they both stiffened, sensing a new presence. A few moments later a knock sounded at the door. A little warily, Duncan advanced on the door.

"Who's there?" he called.

"It's just me," came the slightly exasperated-sounding reply.

Recognizing the voice instantly, Duncan unlocked the door and opened it, then stopped, staring, his mouth hanging open as his gaze traveled down the figure framed by the doorway. Methos seemed taller than usual. . . a fact that probably had something to do with the five-inch platform shoes on his feet. As his gaze rose slowly, Duncan took in the black fishnet stockings which sheathed surprisingly shapely legs, the skimpy black bikini brief below a glittering front-laced corselet that coyly bared a flat and somewhat hairy chest and navel, a set of ludicrously huge faux pearls, and finally the heavily outlined and rouged lips and brilliantly painted eyelids and eyebrows beneath a curly black wig. Duncan stared a moment longer, and then turned to look over his shoulder.

"Richie, your date's here."

"Very funny, MacLeod, or should I say Wallace?" Methos asked, pushing past MacLeod to make his entrance, his black satin, wing-collared cloak fanning out dramatically behind him to reveal its white satin interior. It caught on the umbrella stand and he tugged it free with one hand, sheathed in an elbow-length mitt made of the same glittery fabric as the corset and garter-belt.

"No, no, no, Methos!" Amanda admonished as she followed the older Immortal into the room. "I told you, you've got to swing your hips or you just don't get the right effect! Strut! Don't stomp!"

Mac gaped at Amanda's hair, which had been dyed a lurid shade of red, and at her face, which was made up in a manner reminiscent of a kewpie doll. She was clad in a gold sequined tailcoat and matching top-hat over a rainbow-spangled strapless shorts outfit not too dissimilar to some of her circus costumes. Incongruously she was wearing pale blue bobby-socks over sheer black stockings and her feet were shod in sequined tap-shoes that clicked on the wooden floor with every step she took. Listening to her walk, he figured it would be ten minutes, maximum, before the sound started driving him crazy. He closed the door behind them and stared at Methos some more. The outfit wasn't drag... not exactly, he was making no attempt at all to hide his sex. Duncan was a little bewildered.

"I thought the theme of the costume party was 'movie madness,'" he said cautiously,. wondering if he'd misunderstood.

"It is," Amanda said, looking at him like he'd lost his mind before turning to look at Richie assessingly. "Oooh, nice codpiece!" she said, staring openly.

Richie blushed. "It's just a costume, for God's sake!"

"Oooh, what a shame." She tap-danced her way over to where Richie stood and reached for the bulge.

He caught her hand and shook a finger at her with a ferocious glare. "Don't these two keep you busy enough?" he asked, outrageously.

Amanda's eyebrows went up. "My, my, the infant grows terrible, doesn't he?" She grinned to let him know she was teasing and planted a kiss on his cheek that left a bright red brand on his face. He chuckled and held her at arms-length to study her costume.

"You make a great Columbia, though to be honest my favorite of her costumes is the peekaboo pajama top."

"But these can be worn in public," she said, preening under his praise, before turning to Methos. "All in all, though, I'm not quite as good a Columbia as he is a Frankie."

Richie chuckled. "He's pretty good, but he needs to work on the walk."

Methos looked outraged. "I do not! I wasn't even trying when I came in here. I'm perfectly capable of strutting." He proceeded to demonstrate, with a long-legged, hinge-hipped walk that was mind-bogglingly appropriate to his garb. With a haughty flip of his curls, he lifted one glamorous eyebrow. "Well?"

"Very nice, Frank," Richie conceded. "But can you do the Time Warp?"

Methos grinned and executed a little dance move. "It's just a step to the right!"

"Would someone mind telling me what language you're all speaking?" Duncan complained, feeling left out. Three heads swivelled in his direction, with three nearly identical, astonished expressions. Amanda recovered first.

"Oh my god. . ." she whispered in a tone usually reserved for natural disasters. "He's a virgin."

Duncan stared at her, affronted. "I am not!" he declared emphatically. "And you bloody well know it!"

"Not that kind of virgin, MacLeod! A Rocky-virgin! Oh, is it showing anywhere tonight? We should take him! There must be a show, after all, it's Halloween!"

"Joe would kill us if we didn't show for his party just to take Mac to a movie. It's out on video, we can rent it sometime." Richie said, dampeningly.

"But it's just not the same without squirt guns and toast!" Amanda said, pouting.

"She has a point," Methos put in. "But so do you, so we'll just have to wait for the next showing. In a city this size it must get shown pretty regularly, right?"

"It's not as ubiquitous as it once was," Amanda said sorrowfully. "But we should be able to find it showing somewhere, eventually."

"Will someone please tell me what you're talking about?" Mac asked plaintively.

"The Rocky Horror Picture Show!" They all three chorused in unison.

"I can't believe you've never seen it!" Amanda said, shaking her head.

"I can," Richie told her. "Mac's got too much taste to watch Rocky. Too high class."

Methos rolled his eyes. "Mac's got a stunted fun-gland in his brain. We may just have to do a transplant." He waved a pair of pink rubber gloves in the air, not surgical gloves, but the kind one would use while cleaning a particularly nasty bathroom.

"After seeing you two, I'm half afraid to see this movie, whatever the hell it is." Now that they had identified it, Duncan vaguely remembered having heard of it once upon a time. Tessa had wanted to go see it but he had talked her into going to a concert instead. For a moment he felt that little twinge he felt whenever he thought of Tessa, but it wasn't as painful as it once had been. Time had a way of easing even the worst ache. Time, and new loves. He had a feeling neither Methos or Amanda would be as easily dissuaded from their plan as Tessa had been.

"Oh, good!" Amanda said with an arch glance at Methos. "I like it when he's afraid. It happens so rarely!" Amanda surveyed MacLeod's costume with a sigh. "I know you're The Highlander and all that, but honestly, I thought you could come up with something less predictable for once!." She studied him critically, tapping a finger against her lips. "You know, if we tucked his hair up, stuck a pair of horn-rimmed glasses on him, and put him in a tux with a plaid cummerbund and bow-tie, he might just make a decent Brad."

Methos burst out laughing. "I'd much rather see him in the chorus line outfit. Can't you see it? Mac in Kabuki makeup, four inch heels and a feather boa?"

"Mmm, actually, yes, I can," Amanda said, her gaze going a little hot. "Definitely."

Duncan clutched his plaid protectively as he envisioned them attacking him with a with a tube of clown-white. "I'd rather not, if it's all the same."

"Spoilsport," Methos said, pouting exaggeratedly.

"I don't see anything wrong with my costume, anyway." Duncan said, looking down at himself.

"You wouldn't, since you've worn it to just about every costume party you've attended in the past hundred years," Amanda said sourly. "Show some imagination for heaven's sake! Buy a black sharkskin suit and scowl a lot and go as Steven Segal! Rent a charro outfit and be that guy in Desperado! Anything but that damned kilt!"

"It's called a plaid, no' a kilt," Duncan muttered mulishly, though he had to admit she was right. He had worn his plaid to an awful lot of costume parties. "Besides, it's too late to change."

"It's never too late to change!" Amanda said airily. "I should know. Methos, you and Richie go up to the storeroom and see what you can dig up to put him in. In the meantime I'll get him out of this and get that makeup off him."

Methos shrugged out of his cloak, revealing a colorful tattoo on one biceps of a dagger-pierced heart with the word "Boss" above it.

"I hope that's one of those temporary tattoos," Duncan said, aghast.

"What, don't you think it goes well with my Watcher tattoo?" Methos asked ingenuously as he started up the spiral staircase, with Richie right behind him. Duncan stared, shaking his head in bemusement, wondering how he managed to climb the stairs in those shoes. Amanda watched too, and sighed.

"It's just not fair for a man to have legs that good. Now, come on, where's your makeup remover?"

Duncan stared at her with what he hoped was a blank look. "Makeup remover?"

Amanda stared back ruthlessly. "Don't tell me you don't have any. That's stage makeup, Mac! You know as well as I do that it doesn't come off without remover!"

He sighed. Caught. He'd hoped to slip one past her, but she knew him too well. "It's in the bathroom. I don't want to change."

"Change is a necessary part of life, Duncan." She grabbed the end of his plaid and started pulling. His kilting started to untuck from under his belt and he made a grab for it.

"Hey!"

She grinned. "Are you regimental?"

"For a Halloween party? Are you kidding?" He unfastened his belt and the rest of his outfit fell to the floor in a spiral of wool. He felt rather odd standing there in nothing but a pair of bicycle shorts and face-paint.

Amanda caught his hand and pulled him toward the bathroom. "Come on, lets get busy."

He accompanied her, reluctantly, and stood still while she smeared cold-cream on his face and removed his carefully applied designs. As she was wiping his face like a three-year-old's, he heard Methos and Richie come down the stairs.

"Got a couple of choices here," Methos said from behind him. "This one, and this one."

Amanda plopped the washcloth over Duncan's face so he couldn't see as she pondered the choices. Finally she spoke. "Well, I always like him in a tux, and he could always go as James Bond if he refuses to be Brad, but I like the one on the left better. He can do the Daniel Day-Lewis thing."

Duncan tried to think of what movies Daniel Day-Lewis had been in, and could only remember My Left Foot and A Room With a View. He wasn't partial to Edwardian fashions, straw boaters definitely weren't his style. Plus they'd been up in the storeroom and he sure he didn't have a wheelchair up there, which ruled out the former film. So, what had they found, besides his tux? Amanda finally let him go and stepped back to survey her handiwork. With a satisfied nod she moved to let him out of the bathroom.

Methos had hung his tux on the wardrobe door, and draped their second choice across the bed. It lay there, beads gleaming against the mellow buckskin, fringe trailing. His jaw tightened. It had been a very long time since he'd worn that outfit. It had a lot of bad memories associated with it. Still, it also had a lot of good ones. He really needed to stop dwelling on the bad ones. He was pretty sure it would still fit, buckskin stretched a little. On the other hand, it didn't breathe well. On the other-other hand, it had plenty of ventilation. Pretending annoyance, he sighed.

"Oh, all right! I'll wear it, but one of you has to tell me who I'm going as and what movie I'm supposed to be from, because I haven't a clue."

"Honestly, Duncan, you're pitiful!" Amanda said in exasperation. "It's Natty Bumpo, from Last of the Mohicans!"

He felt like an idiot. He'd even seen the damned movie, he'd just completely forgotten about it. He shook his head, smiling ruefully. "Too bad I can't blame that lapse of memory on senility. Now, get out of here and I'll get dressed."

Amanda hooked a finger in the waistband of his shorts and snapped it sharply. "These are coming off first."

"I'm not going to a party with my ass hanging out!" Duncan protested.

Amanda leaned close and put her lips against his ear. "Oh?" she asked, her breath feathering warmly into the convolutions of his ear, perversely provoking a shiver. "Why not? I rather like the idea, myself. . ." she began to slowly slide a hand down his chest toward the shorts. "Methos, want to help me convince him?"

Richie cleared his throat. "I think I'll just wait outside."

Methos chuckled. "Settle down, Ryan. We weren't planning on ripping your costume off."

Richie grinned. "Good, 'cause this thing's rented," he said, chuckling. "But I still think I'll wait outside."

Duncan reached out and grabbed him by his utility belt. "Oh no you don't! You're not abandoning me to the whims of these two. I'll end up in heels and lipstick!"

Richie laughed. "You never know, Mac, they might look good on you." At Duncan's ferocious glare, Richie held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, I'll stay and defend your virtue."

* * *

By the time they got to Joe's, the party was in full swing. The place was packed with costumed partygoers and the music was loud enough to wake the dead... appropriately enough for Halloween. Mac lounged against a wall near the bar, his backside carefully shielded by the concrete, his tunic-length fringed shirt, and nothing else. As usual, Amanda had won the argument.

He suspected he was going to regret it before the night was out, which was why he'd chosen a position where he wasn't particularly accessible. Plus, the damned breechclout thong was sort of uncomfortable. It was amazing what you forgot about after a hundred years of not wearing something. Still, on the whole the outfit was more comfortable than some things he'd worn over the years. Regency jackets for one, so tight you couldn't raise your arms without splitting a seam, not to mention the god-awful cravats.

The waitress came by and handed him the scotch he'd ordered, and he reached into his belt-pouch for money to cover the cost. His fingers brushed the soft leather over his thigh, and he shook his head in amazement that it was nearly as supple as it had been when he'd first worn it. Though he had never really intended to wear them again, neither had he wanted to seem them grow stiff and shrunken, a reminder of how much time had passed. So, like the rest of his treasures, he'd always made sure the leathers were well cared for, and thanks to a conscientious clothing conservator he'd sent them to a few years earlier all the quilling and beadwork were firmly attached so he didn't have to fear loosing bits and pieces everywhere he went.

Their entry into the bar had been greeted with raucous cheers and demands for the band to play the Time Warp. Someone in a hideous polyester tuxedo and plaid bow-tie Mac assumed to be the infamous "Brad" had grabbed Methos and Amanda, hustling them over toward a blonde woman who looked as if she would be more at home at a 1950's church social than a rowdy bar. Her demure suit was accessorized by a straw hat, gloves, and a hard-shell pocketbook. The four of them laughed and greeted each other by names that weren't their own, and as Duncan had turned to ask Richie who they were, he'd found he'd been deserted by the younger half of the Dynamic Duo. After a moment he'd spotted the Boy Wonder standing next to a curvaceous young woman in skintight black with a bat-mask. He assumed she was Jenny, though it was hard to tell under the mask. He tipped his drink back and sipped the Glenfiddich slowly, savoring its peaty smoothness.

"Of all the gin joints in this town, you had to pick mine," came a raspy voice, butchering the classic Bogart quote. Mac grinned and turned to look at Joe, lifting his glass in salute as he studied his costume. The outfit; a trench-coat, fedora, and cynical smile, matched the quote.

"Rick Blane, I presume?" Duncan asked.

Joe nodded. "Nice to see you guys made it, I was about to give up."

"Sorry, we got a little delayed."

"Had trouble finding shoes for Frankenfurter over there?"

Duncan shook his head. "No, he came fully equipped, but Amanda didn't like my choice of costume."

Joe snorted. "Don't tell me. . . Rob Roy?"

Duncan grinned ruefully. "Close, William Wallace. Tell me, does everyone around here think I have no imagination?"

Joe pretended to ponder that a moment, then nodded. "Yep, pretty much." He studied Duncan, reaching out to finger some of the dangling fringe, and lifted an eyebrow. "I have to say though, this one surprises me. I mean, I know you and Methos are kind of an item, but when did you join The Village People?"

Duncan groaned and put his head in his hand. "Please! It's Last of the Mohicans."

Joe nodded, sipping his beer. "I should've figured it would be something literary. You couldn't just have fun, could you?"

"I have a lot of fun!" Duncan protested, stung by that comment which was annoyingly similar to the one leveled at him by Methos and Amanda.

"Yeah, but you don't want anyone to know you do. It might spoil your image."

Duncan sighed. "I don't get no respect."

Joe shook his head. "Sorry, I know you too well for that."

"What is this? Pick on MacLeod night?"

Joe chuckled. "Sorry, you're just such an easy target sometimes. Come on and sit down for a while. There's a free table."

"No thanks, I'll stay here."

Joe stopped, looking puzzled. "Why?"

For answer Duncan pointed at his leggings. "They're authentic."

"Yeah, so?"

MacLeod drew aside the edge of the tunic momentarily to flash bare hip. "That's why."

A look of comprehension came over the Watcher's face and he chuckled. "You can have the seat next to the wall."

"Thanks. Walk behind me?"

"How do you know I'll keep my hands off?" Joe asked suggestively, following Mac toward the table. MacLeod stopped and looked back at him, eyes narrowed, one hand holding the back fringes of the shirt as if to keep it firmly in place. Joe laughed and held up both hands. "Relax, MacLeod, it was a joke. You're not my type."

Duncan studied him a moment longer and then shook his head, chuckling. "I'm never sure about anything any more." He pulled out the chair and sat down, careful to place the wall at his back before arranging his shirt carefully.

Joe nodded sagely as he took his seat facing the Highlander. Duncan looked past him, out over the sea of bodies to find the tallest one in room, cloak collar framing his starkly made-up face. Next to Methos was a smaller figure sporting neon-red hair. He found himself smiling. Joe noticed the direction of his gaze and grinned.

"You know, it's nice to see you enjoying yourself. Maybe I shouldn't say this, but it seems like since Tessa died, you haven't let yourself enjoy life.

Duncan thought about that seriously, and nodded. "No, you can say it, in fact, you're absolutely right. I haven't. I think in a way I've been punishing myself for her death. I did the same thing when Little Deer died. I think it's my way of dealing with death."

"Not a very healthy one, Mac," Joe said gently.

Duncan sighed. "No one ever said mortals have a monopoly on unhealthy attitudes."

Joe chuckled and saluted him with his beer. "Ain't that the truth?" He tipped it back and took a long draw from the bottle, then set the empty down with a deep, satisfied sigh. "How come you're not dancing?" Duncan just looked at him, one eyebrow lifted, until Joe chuckled. "Oh, right. The outfit."

"I always knew you were smart." Duncan said drily.

Joe signaled the waitress and ordered another beer, and another Scotch for Duncan, and they sat in a companionable silence watching the crowd and occasionally commenting on particularly good costumes. Several women approached the table to ask Duncan to dance, but he turned them all down. Joe ordered another round for himself, and for Duncan, who was a little surprised by his unexpected beneficence but accepted it, not being one to turn down free drinks.

Mac felt restless, and a bit left out. He saw Amanda dancing with a well-built young man dressed as Conan, and his eyes narrowed. Somewhere along the line she'd shed her golden tailcoat and was down to just the bustier and shorts. Almost against his will, Duncan looked for Methos, and found him leaning against the wall near the door chatting intimately with the Cleaveresque blonde. He scowled and tossed the rest of his drink down, not really tasting the fine scotch. Another glass was placed at his hand, and after a couple of sips he found himself tapping his foot, which also annoyed him.

"Somethin' wrong, Mac?"

"No." Duncan snapped, and returned to watching the crowd.

"Just askin'," the Watcher said with a lifted eyebrow. "It's time for my set, I'll see you later."

Duncan nodded curtly and watched his companion make his way toward the stage. Now he really felt abandoned. Methos was talking to a guy with a bad haircut wearing a trench-coat and tennis shoes, and carrying a plastic toy sword. He looked vaguely familiar, but Duncan couldn't place him. Richie was dancing with Jenny, and Amanda had a new partner, a good-looking Asian guy wearing nothing but a loincloth. Duncan guessed he was either Tarzan, or Mowgli, from The Jungle Book. Amanda seemed to be dancing with all of the most scantily clad guys in the place.

As the set ended, Amanda sent a pouty glance his way, as if to chide him for leaving her alone on the floor, and he suddenly started to feel a little sheepish about his paranoia. Compared to some of the guys she'd been dancing with, he was nearly smothered in clothing. Unless he started dancing on the tables, no one would be able to tell how vulnerable he really was. Besides. . . even if Methos and Amanda did have some mischief in mind, would it be so bad? They hadn't yet done anything to him that he hadn't ended up enjoying.

Decisively he stood up and stalked across the dance floor toward Amanda just as Joe picked up his guitar and started to play a rollicking blues line, his smoky voice growling lyrics, something about burning a house down. Duncan grabbed Amanda's hands and drew her hard against him, bending to plant a heated kiss on her startled mouth before pulling her onto the dance floor. He kept their bodies together as they danced, moving to the driving beat in a way that would probably have earned an NC-17 rating in a film. With some amusement he remembered that once upon a time, Parisians had called this 'Apache dancing.' He wasn't sure it had ever caught on in the States, but at least his costume was appropriate for it.

Amanda followed his lead, her strong, flexible body moving with his, echoing every motion, her eyes sparkling with humor and excitement. He was so close that he could smell the rich, primitive scent of her, and wondered if it was just because he knew it so well, or if she was just really turned on. The idea of the latter began to work on him, and he found himself glad that the fringes his tunic came to mid-thigh. He kept her close and low, bodies always touching, always moving, their movements sharply dramatic. He felt a little wild, a little hazy, as if he'd had too much to drink. . . perhaps he had, but it didn't matter. He was enjoying the dance too much to care. It was like making love in public. He let his mouth graze her bare shoulders and throat as they danced, and knew by her responses that she was feeling as feral as he was.

By the time Joe finished the number, they were the only couple on the floor, and the end of their dance was greeted by thunderous applause. Exhilarated they bowed, and other couples moved onto the floor as Joe began a new piece. Amanda tugged Duncan toward the dance floor again but a strong hand on his shoulder checked him.

"Oh no you don't," Methos said, grinning. "No more of that for now. I doubt Joe wants this party turning into a full-fledged orgy. I bet he hasn't got the right license for that, and you know how people are about permits these days."

Amanda pouted, crossing her arms huffily, but Duncan chuckled and acquiesced, though he too felt a little disappointed. Still, continuing to dance in that mode might well be as dangerous as Methos had jokingly suggested. "I suppose you're right. We wouldn't want to get him in trouble."

"And another dance like that one definitely would. Gods, you two were hot!"

Amanda flashed a grin. "We were, weren't we? I haven't had so much fun in years."

Methos made a hurt face. "What am I? Paté?"

"Well... I meant the kind of fun you can have in public," she amended, touching his lower lip with a fingertip.

"That's better," he said, winking. "Thirsty?"

At their nods, he led them toward the bar, which was crowded. Mike and Renee clearly had their hands full. After surveying the crowded area for a moment, Methos got a distinct gleam in his eyes and nodded toward the door just to the right behind the bar.

"Come on, I know where he keeps the stock."

"Oooh! Raiding the pantry!" Amanda said, perking up. "That would make my night!"

Methos sighed. "She's far too easy."

Duncan grinned, patting her sequinned rear-end. "One of her best qualities, I always thought."

She shot him an evil look and flounced off toward the door. Duncan hesitated a moment, then gave in. He could easily slip a few extra tens into the till to cover anything they took. Amanda put her hand on the doorknob and tested it. It turned easily and she made a face.

"What fun is it raiding an unlocked room?" she complained. "Really, I'll have to speak to Joe about this!"

"Later," Duncan said, urging her into the room with a hand on her back. He realized he could still smell her, the dark, heady scent of woman. Once more, his body reacted instinctively, and he reached down to ease the sudden constriction as they slipped inside and closed the door behind them. Methos caught him at it, and lifted an eyebrow. Duncan grinned and spread his hands in the air. "What can I say?" he whispered as Amanda walked around the room, her shoes clicking on the wooden floor. "I can smell her."

Methos sniffed, and then looked back at Duncan, his eyes smoky. "So can I, you must have really gotten her worked up out there."

"I got both of us worked up out there."

"Make that all three of us." Methos corrected him.

Amanda completed her survey of the room with a sigh. "Jeez, not even his computer's worth stealing. We gotta see if we can get him a raise. This is pitiful, there's nothing good in here."

Duncan shook his head, a slow smile curving his mouth. "Now, that's not true at all. There's you, and there's Methos."

Methos looked at him sharply, then his gaze went to Amanda, before returning to Duncan. "And you," he said softly.

Amanda's eyes flicked back and forth, studying each of them. "You two are feeling naughty tonight, aren't you?" A sensual smile played over her mouth as she eyed them both in clear invitation. "Well, what's the old saying? Trick or treat?"

Before she could say anything else, Duncan had lifted her off her feet and was heading for the desk. Methos got there first and shoved the few items on its surface off to one side, creating a bare space in the middle. Duncan set Amanda on her feet in front of the desk, his fingers easing down the tab on the zipper that closed her costume. It opened and after she gave a little shimmy, slid to the floor, leaving her clad only in a black satin waist-nipper whose garters held up her black stockings.

"I must have been a very good girl," she purred, "to get two such lovely treats." She reached under Duncan's shirt to find the thong that held his breechclout in place, and deftly untied the knot that cinched it. Her fingers lingered as she drew the soft leather away from him, and he stood frozen in place as she stroked him. After a moment she turned away and gestured for Methos to go around to the other side of the desk.

For a moment Duncan wasn't sure what she was up to, but as she bent over the desk with a provocative glance over her shoulder at Duncan, he knew. She reached over and hooked her fingers in Methos briefs, which barely contained his straining erection, drawing them down slowly to expose him. Tugging on the fabric, she pulled him forward until his thighs were pressed against the front of the desk, then she slid a hand under his testicles and held him still for her mouth. He groaned, hands clenching as she drew her tongue delicately down the long groove on the underside of his cock. Duncan moved between Amanda's thighs and reached down to verify that she was as hot and wet as he'd suspected.

She wriggled, making a little purring sound as he stroked her, then fit himself to her. She pushed back, encouraging him, and with a little growl he slid deep, feeling her velvet heat surround him. He almost lost it, but somehow managed to drag himself back. He'd be damned if he'd go off and leave her behind.

He watched as she traced her tongue around the arrow-shaped tip of Methos' straining penis, then sucked him into her mouth. Methos gasped and his hands went to her head, stroking the silky flames of her hair as she suckled him. Duncan wedged one hand beneath Amanda so he could massage the sensitive rise of her clitoris as he began to stroke into her supple heat. Methos leaned forward, reaching to knot his fingers in Duncan's hair and pull him forward until their lips met in a harsh, needy kiss that tasted of whiskey and lipstick. It was a strange and peculiarly erotic flavor.

Amanda went stiff suddenly, her body tensing and releasing around him, and she moaned her fulfillment, the sound coming from deep in her throat as she refused to release her prey even then Her hand moved lower between Methos' thighs, and he shuddered, his mouth frantic against Duncan's as she drove him over the edge. The combination of their almost-simultaneous releases, and adrenalin and liquor combined to undo Duncan's desperate hold on his control, and he drove deep, his body shuddering as pleasure pulsed through him.

After a moment, Amanda finally let go of Methos, who went to his knees in front of the desk and kissed her deeply. Duncan stroked her back gently and eased away, his body wet with sweat and their combined essences. He spotted a box of tissues and used a handful to mop up, first her, then himself. She finally stood up with a sigh, and stretched, smiling as she reached over to play a finger across the fringe that hung from the hem and sleeves of his shirt.

"You know, until now I had no idea that fringe had any use other than to decoration. Those are-" she shivered delicately. "Very nice."

Methos put both hands on the desk and pushed himself back to his feet, glancing at the clock on the wall. "God... eight minutes!" he moaned ruefully. "I think I've just broken my own all time worst record."

Amanda laughed, looking smug. "And I think I've just been complimented! But don't worry about it, love. As long as we're all happy, how long it took doesn't matter."

"I suppose," Methos said, still shaking his head. "But I'll make it up to you later."

Amanda winked. "I'll hold you to it."

Duncan leaned down and retrieved his breechclout from the floor where Amanda had dropped it, and somewhat reluctantly tied it back in place. Methos tugged his briefs back up, and Amanda bent over to pick up the rest of her costume just as someone opened the office door. Methos quickly stepped around the desk to lounge nonchalantly, one hip perched on the corner as he surreptitiously shoved papers back toward the middle of the desk. His cloak provided a shield for Amanda to crouch behind as she hurriedly yanked her costume back on. Duncan stood behind her and quickly zipped it closed with one hand as he grabbed the phone with the other. Because of their respective positions, Duncan was the only one who could see Joe as he walked in and stopped dead in his tracks, taking in the scene.

"Yeah, that's right. No anchovies, and we'll pick it up in half an hour," Duncan said into the dial tone. "And throw in an order of wings."

Joe glanced from Duncan to Amanda's flushed face, to Methos' back, to the haphazardly scattered papers on the desk, and watched Mac put the phone down. One eyebrow went up.

"Pizza?" he queried, clearly disbelieving.

"We were hungry, and thought we'd pick it up on the way home."

Amanda nodded vehemently. Methos rolled his eyes, because he knew Joe couldn't see him. Joe stared at them a minute longer, and started to chuckle, shaking his head. "Whatever you say. Far be it from me to call y'all liars to your faces. Take a couple of minutes to straighten up in here would you?" he asked, opening the door to step back out into the noisy bar. "And, by the way, MacLeod- nice warpaint." With that parting comment, he closed the door behind himself.

Duncan had no idea what he was talking about but both Methos and Amanda looked at him and burst out laughing. As Methos started to neaten up the desk, Amanda grabbed a tissue from the box and swiped at Duncan's mouth. The tissue came away stained a deep, almost black-red. For a moment longer he just stared at the tissue, uncomprehending, then it hit him, and he looked at Methos' mouth. Most of his lipstick was gone. Amanda's mouth bore a faint tinge of it, but he'd been the first one Methos had kissed, and he was clearly the one who'd gotten the lion's share of the color. He put a hand to his forehead and started to laugh, shaking his head.

"I don't know why I ever bother to try to lie to anyone. I invariably get caught."

"You do seem to have that karma," Methos agreed. "You must have a really awful person in your last life to be cursed with terminal honesty and a white-knight streak a mile wide. Its so much easier to just get away with things, like Amanda and I."

"So, I guess you two are going to have to teach me how to lie," he said. "Come on, let's go get that pizza."

"What pizza?" Amanda asked, puzzled.

"The one we didn't order. It's a good excuse to go home and take our time. After all, you did say you'd make it up to her," Duncan said, looking at Methos. "And you know that it's just not in my nature to let anyone down."

"A friend in need is a friend indeed?" Methos asked drily.

"Something like that," Mac said, opening the door and stepping back to let them go through first. "Something very like that."

* * *

_finis_


	6. Chapter 6

It wasn't usually hot in Seacouver. Normally the weather tended toward cool and sunny, but for the past week it had been unbearable, the air thick with humidity and the temperatures in the low nineties. Despite the humidity, the fire-danger in the surrounding mountains was sky high. In Joe's Bar, it seemed the same. Everyone was short-tempered and out of sorts. The customers were complaining more and tipping less than usual, half the wait staff had called in sick, and the band Joe had just hired hadn't shown up for their set so he'd had to fill in for them himself. Not that he'd minded that so much, he always liked to play, but he preferred to be prepared. Still, the crowd had seemed to settle down a little in response to his music, and a few couples had even gotten up and danced.

To top off a perfect day, after he'd finished, he'd gone to the back room to relax and found a message on his machine from European Watcher HQ alerting him that Sam Hayes hadn't checked in for over six weeks. For a moment the news had thrown him back to earlier in the year, to the sickening feeling of seeing name after name appear on the roster of agents with the words "Deceased" next to them; but Tanner Dane was gone, Duncan had taken care of him, and so far as he knew, there were no other Immortals taking Watcher heads. He tried to remember who Sam's current assignment was, and the name wasn't long in coming. Though now she went by the name Nira Groves, the chronicles knew her simply as Metanira, and her birth had predated the Common Era by scant handful of years. Joe wondered idly if Methos knew her. Surely they had met, both of them being among the older Immortals living.

As a child she had been pledged a priestess of Ceres, and had remained one all her life. Like Darius she had devoted her life to her religion, but unlike him she had never cloistered herself. Claiming that as a priestess any place she set her foot was holy ground, she had, amazingly, succeeded in avoiding the sword. Joe still couldn't believe that every Immortal would respect that idea, but apparently whatever happened to an Immortal who killed on Holy Ground was bad enough that no one wanted to risk finding out if she was bluffing.

Still, being her watcher wasn't what he would call dangerous. Her previous watcher had left the post because they wanted someone more interesting. The watcher before that had retired in his sixties, rarely having witnessed anything more exciting than a heated conversation between his charge and another Immortal. She lived simply, and rather dully. He'd warned Sam about that when he'd taken the post, but Sam had insisted that it was what he wanted. Maybe he'd just gotten bored and taken off. Joe hoped that was the case.

A soft knock at the door caught his attention and he looked up as the door swung open, and Mike stuck his head around the corner.

"Closing time, boss," he said. "I'd lock up, but you've got a lady waiting to see you."

Joe was startled. "Me?"

"She asked for Joe Dawson; last time I checked, that was you."

"Thanks, Mike. I'll see what she wants." Wondering who it was, Joe levered himself to a standing position, feeling the aches of a day's stresses in his hips and thighs. With a slight wince he grabbed his cane and leaned on it as he walked. Who'd be coming to see him? Amanda? No, Mike knew Amanda and he'd have said if it was her. It was probably someone here on Watcher business. God knew they had no sense of appropriate hours at which to conduct business. He hadn't realized it was so late, but a quick glance at his watch told him it was a quarter after two. He stepped from the office and looked around the now-deserted bar, feeling a warm sense of pride. The bookstore might have been a more prestigious cover for a Watcher, but the bar was _his_.

Remembering why he'd left the office, he glanced around again, this time more carefully, looking for the woman who'd come to find him. He almost missed her, her dress a shade of brown that blended with the shadows around the table. She wasn't familiar to him. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, and was almost plain of feature. She had dark, thick hair which she wore parted in the center and drawn back into a plain chignon at the nape of her neck. Her face was oval, her skin slightly olive, her nose and chin just a little strong. Her wide mouth was set in a solemn line, and her surprisingly light gray eyes regarded him gravely as he made his way to her table.

"I'm Joe Dawson, what can I do for you?"

"There is nothing you need do for me, but I have something for you," she said quietly, her voice startlingly melodious. She had a slight accent, one he could not quite place, though it might be Middle-Eastern, or maybe Russian. It was dark, and husky, and made him think of Marlene Dietrich movies and old blues standards. She reached into the large leather bag at her side and drew out an object. He started as he recognized the leather cover with its incised sigil. A chronicle. He'd been right, it was Watcher business.

"A friend asked me to bring this to you. He said I was to give it to no one else, and that I should tell you goodbye for him."

Her speech was curiously formal. Almost mechanically he reached for the book and opened it to the first page. Unfamiliar, spidery copperplate spelled out a single name across the top, and below that the words 'Athens, May 15, 1868.' He frowned and flipped through the pages, watching the handwriting change several times as different Watchers took over the journal, until he reached the latest entries, dated only a few weeks earlier, with a location header that was mostly consonants. The handwriting there was a familiar looping scrawl.

"Where did you get this?" he demanded, a sinking feeling beginning to creep through him.

"Samuel gave it to me, when he realized he was not going to be able to give it to you himself."

Though she pronounced his name oddly, almost 'Samel,' Joe had no doubt who she spoke of, and her words confirmed his fears. His hands tightened convulsively on the book he held. "He's dead, isn't he?"

She nodded, her clear eyes softened with sympathy and the sheen of tears. "I am sorry, I wish I had better news for you. He was a good man, and a friend. It is hard when they go, especially so young."

Young? Sam Hayes had been six years his senior, certainly older than the woman before him. He studied her again, frowning. "Who are you?"

She studied him equally intently, seeming a little surprised. "I thought you would know, or I would have told you before, my name is Nira Groves."

Joe gaped at her, stunned. Though he'd gotten rather used to hanging out with Immortals, it wasn't every day one of them waltzed into his bar and handed him their own chronicle. After a moment he managed to close his mouth and he shook his head in disbelief.

"Well, this is a new one for me. I'd introduce myself but you seem to know my name already."

She smiled a little. "Samel told me a great deal about you."

Joe thought about all the things Sam might have told her and winced. "Oh great."

The smile broadened, and he found himself oddly attracted to her. She wasn't drop-dead gorgeous, but there was a depth to her smile that was very compelling.

"He was very complimentary, don't worry."

"Yeah, right, I'll just bet he was." Joe had known Sam for more than thirty years, and had his suspicions about what he might have told her about him.

The smile became a laugh. "He said you would say something like that."

Joe rubbed his forehead and looked at her ruefully. "Oh god... predictable... I'm predictable!" he moaned.

She laughed at that. "Not so much to me, but to Sam." Her face suddenly shadowed as she said his name. Joe felt a reflection of that shadow in himself.

"How did it happen?" he asked quietly.

She sighed deeply, and looked over to where Mike stood, quietly drying glasses before putting them away. Joe understood, and lifted his head to call over to his co-worker.

"It's okay, Mike. You can go on home now."

Even though Mike, too, was a Watcher, some things were personal and best not overheard. Joe wondered if he'd heard their visitor introduce herself. He hoped not. He had a bad enough reputation in the organization as it was, what with Duncan, Richie and Amanda walking in and out of his life at the drop of a hat. Fortunately they hadn't yet twigged to the fact that Adam Pierson was Methos. That would be the final straw. It was strange, for centuries Watchers had gone undetected by their quarry, or so they had thought, now suddenly it seemed like every other Immortal he met knew about them. Maybe the time was just right. The universe had a way of doing that. Whether or not he had heard, Mike nodded and headed for the door, nodding good-night to both of them as he left. Joe thought about sitting down, then decided he needed something to bolster him against the news he was going to receive.

"Can I get you anything?" he asked.

Nira looked thoughtfully toward the bar. "I don't suppose you have ouzo," she asked in a slightly wistful tone.

Joe shook his head, knowing the thick, resinous wine wasn't something he stocked. "No, sorry. It's not much called for here."

She nodded, "I suspected as much. Perhaps a Sambuca?"

"That I can do." He made his way over to the bar and poured himself a double bourbon, and her a Sambuca, reaching into the freezer to dig a couple of espresso beans out of the bag they kept there. As he floated them on the liquor, Nira stood up and came over to the bar. She was shorter than he had expected, only about five-three. Her brown dress was almost a 1950's style, with a long, flared skirt and slightly tailored bodice. Though he suspected it was unintentional, the sable fabric flowed beautifully over the full curves of her breasts and hips. She seated herself on one of the stools and reached for the glass with the coffee beans in it.

"A traditionalist, I see," she remarked as she touched one of the beans with fingertip, causing it to sink below the surface for a moment.

"In some ways," Joe acknowledged. "But traditional just seemed appropriate for you."

She smiled a little, lifting her gaze to his for a brief moment. Had she been someone else he would have said the look was a little shy, but no one could possibly be shy after having been around for over two-thousand years. . . could they? He took a sip of his drink, savored it, swallowed, and forced himself to ask again the question he didn't really want the answer to.

"What happened to Sam?"

She stared at him for a moment, then picked up her drink and drained it in a single gulp, then pushed it across the bar toward him. "More?"

He nodded and refilled the glass as she began to speak.

"You know what I do, yes?"

He nodded. "You run one of those 'feed the world' groups, right? As I recall you also sponsor a lot of agricultural research into crops that will grow in places where other crops can't."

She nodded. "In this day and age it's the only way I have of openly giving honor to my Lady."

He was puzzled for a moment before he realized what she was talking about. No matter what else she was, she still considered herself a priestess of a goddess who hadn't been worshipped in thousands of years. Or at least, not by many people, he corrected himself, realizing that there was still at least one person who did. But what did her work have to do with Sam's death? As if reading his mind, Nira spoke again.

"I had heard stories of a plant with great nutritive value that grew in arid mountain areas in South America, where the soil is thin and unproductive. I became rather obsessed with finding it. I spent several months searching for someone who knew the plant and could guide me, and finally found someone. By then it was late fall where we were heading, but I had to go then, I couldn't wait. Sam had to go with me, of course, he had to write in that stupid book. After the four-wheel-drives couldn't deal with the terrain, we switched to horses. It was very rough going, and I should have seen that he was in trouble, but I didn't. We were at high altitude, the weather was bad, and we were pushing ourselves to find the plants before the snows made it impossible."

She paused, and grabbed the glass, downing her second shot of Sambuca as quickly as she had her first before she could bring herself to continue. Unasked, he once more refilled her glass, suspecting she would need it. He added a splash of bourbon to his own drink, whose level had been steadily declining as he listened. She took a deep breath, and continued.

"That last day, I finally noticed he was looking ill. I asked if he was all right, and he insisted that he was. I let him convince me, though I've looked at the face of death often enough that I should have recognized it staring back at me. We went on. Some time into our ride, he slipped from the saddle. I didn't even realize it at first, he was the last one in the party, and I rode at the front. It wasn't until I wanted to ask him about a story he'd been telling me the night before that I realized he was missing. We turned back at once, and found him within minutes, but there was nothing we could do. He was dying."

"His heart?" Joe asked. That was why he'd taken Sam off his previous assignment. He'd had a heart attack eight years earlier, and Joe had given him Nira as a replacement, knowing she was an easy one. Sam had gone off with strict instructions from his doctor to watch his diet and get regular exercise, but Joe had his doubts that any of those things had occurred. Sam wasn't the type to take advice.

Nira nodded, and lifted her gaze to his, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears. "Why did he not tell me he had difficulties with his heart? I would never have let him go if I had known!"

Joe shook his head and reached over to cover her hand with his own. "He wouldn't have wanted to say. It wasn't his way. He was too proud and stubborn to say anything."

"And now he is dead because of me," she said, her voice and throat taut.

"No! Not because of you." Joe's hand tightened on hers. "He must have known, he wasn't stupid. He chose to go that way."

She pulled her hand away from his and picked up her glass. He could see the tremor in her hand reflected in the shivering surface of the clear liquid within. She drained it as she had the first two, then carefully set it down. The lady could certainly put it away. Of course, it wasn't like it was going to hurt her. He had one more question to ask, and he poured another measure of the anise-flavored liquor into her glass, hoping she would answer it.

"Did Sam tell you about us then, so you'd bring the chronicle home?"

She shook her head. "No. I've known about you for much longer than that. A friend had told me of your existence when I was half as old as I am now. He had become friends with his Watcher, and thought perhaps I too might like someone with whom I could speak freely. I did try, but the one who Watched me then was not the type one could confide in. He was very disapproving of what I was."

"Your Immortality?" Joe asked, only a little surprised. He'd recently come to realized that there were more Watchers with that mindset than he had ever suspected. Nira shook her head.

"No, of my religion. He was a very devout Christian and found me to be a godless pagan." She smiled. "I could hardly dispute that, as I am. So, I had to wait for a more open-minded vigilant before I could take my friend's advice."

Joe shook his head, smiling. "I don't suppose your informant's name was Adam, was it?"

She shook her head, puzzled. "No, why do you ask?"

"Nothing, go on. How did you and Sam meet?"

"It was shortly after Impatient Eric went away that I noticed him watching me. I watched him in return until I saw the mark on his wrist and knew for certain what he was."

Joe chuckled at her name for Eric Berkeley, the Watcher Sam had replaced. It was quite appropriate.

"Then what did you do?"

"I walked up to him and told him if he was going to spend his time watching me, he might as well come up to the house and be comfortable doing it. I'm afraid I startled him a bit."

Joe laughed. "I can imagine! I was a bit startled myself when you told me who you were. It's not every day an Immortal walks up and introduces themselves."

She frowned a little, puzzled. "But I thought you were like Sam. He told me you have Immortal friends."

Joe cleared his throat uncomfortably. So, Sam had heard that? Joe hadn't mentioned it, so he had to have gotten it through the grapevine. Not good. "Yeah, well... but I didn't think it was exactly a widespread phenomenon."

"It's more so than you might think."

"I'm beginning to realize that. So, you were. . . friends?" He winced a little as he realized the implication his pause had given his question. Damn. That was really subtle.

She tactfully ignored it. "We were friends, after awhile, and in our own fashion. He was a very opinionated man, and not very tactful, as well as having some rather ridiculous ideas of what was proper for a woman."

Joe winced. "Yeah, I can imagine," he said, remembering some of the four-times-divorced Sam's views on women. Some of them started with "on her knees" or "on her back." Hopefully he hadn't mentioned those. It wasn't wise to piss off people who carry swords.

"Still, we got along quite well most of the time, and it was good to have someone other than my own kind to talk to openly. I miss him. I miss him very much." Her voice broke on the last word and she picked up her drink, gulping it with a speed at odds with her ladylike manner and appearance. Setting the glass back down she sighed.

"I should go. I only wanted to bring you the book and tell you about Samel." She leaned over, he guessed to pick up her bag, and he watched, bemused, as she just kept right on leaning until she fell off the stool. He stood frozen in place for a moment, then hurried around to the other side of the bar. She was sitting on the floor next to her satchel, looking very puzzled. Her skirt was rucked up on one side, exposing a nicely shaped thigh, there was a dirty spot on her forehead where it had obviously hit the floor, and several strands of hair had come loose from her chignon to hang in corkscrew curls along one side of her face.

"I seem to have fallen off my chair," she said, enunciating carefully.

Joe wasn't sure how he managed to keep a straight face as he realized Nira Groves was as drunk as the proverbial skunk. He'd thought that she had been drinking like an old pro, when in reality she'd been drinking like someone who had no idea what they were doing. Four shots of high-test had done her in. Steadying himself with a hand on the bar, he extended his other hand down to her.

"May I help you up?" he asked gallantly.

She focused on his hand, and smiled. "Thank you." She reached up and took it, and he pulled steadily until she regained her footing, albeit a little unsteadily. She leaned against a stool as she reached back down for her bag, this time managing to snag it and return to an upright position without too much difficulty.

"What do I owe you?" she asked, fumbling with the catch.

He shook his head. "Not a thing, it was my pleasure."

She giggled. "You're a very nice man."

Joe bit his lip to keep from laughing and nodded solemnly. "All my friends say so."

"Good." She took three wobbly steps toward the door, then stopped, turning around. "I liked your music. It made me feel strange inside, sad, but happy at the same time."

It might not have been the most eloquent compliment he'd ever gotten, but it was sincere, and he felt the warm, full feeling that knowing he'd touched someone always gave him.

"Thank you, ma'am."

She looked at him for a moment longer, then sighed, her expression going wistful. He expected her to speak, but she didn't, instead she turned and progressed toward the door again, still unsteady on her feet. He thought of her like this, on the streets at three a.m. in an unfamiliar city, and alarm filled him suddenly. She would be at risk from both mortal and Immortal predators. And if she'd driven herself she was a threat to others.

"Ms. Groves?" he called.

She turned quickly, and almost overbalanced herself. After a moment of flailing for balance, she managed to steady herself as he caught up to where she stood. "Yes?"

"May I drive you back to your hotel?" he offered.

"Hotel?" she queried blankly.

"Or wherever you're staying." he amended.

"Staying?" she said, just as blankly.

"You are staying somewhere, aren't you?"

She frowned thoughtfully. "I must be, mustn't I?"

He stifled a chuckle. She was pretty far gone. It was kind of amusing, though he felt a little guilty for having not realized she was a novice drinker. "Check your purse, maybe you have a hotel key."

Nira nodded and opened her bag, pawing through it, but came up empty-handed. She shrugged. "No matter. I will find a place."

"I'll find you a place," he said, guiding her toward the door. "I can't let you out on the streets like this."

She looked down at herself. "Like what? Issa nice dress."

He chuckled. "It's a very nice dress, but that wasn't what I meant. Have you ever been drunk before?"

She studied him thoughtfully, and finally shook her head. "'Don' think so."

Joe sighed. "I was afraid of that." He caught her arm as she wandered a couple of steps down the street. "Stay right there while I finish this. . ." he said, reaching to bolt the door, still trying to absorb the concept that a woman with two millennia under her belt could possibly have never gotten drunk before.

"Drunk. Well, new s'periences are always good," she said philosophically, if slurrily.

"No, some aren't, and that's why I don't want you wandering around on the streets like this. Come on, you can stay the night at my place. It's not the Ritz-Carlton, but it'll do in pinch, and that's the only way I can be sure you're safe until you're sober. I couldn't live with myself if someone took your head because I got you drunk and you couldn't defend yourself."

"Don' need t' defend m'self, " she said, her speech increasingly thick. "Holy Ground." she pointed at the sidewalk to emphasize her words.

"Sweetheart, one of these days you're going to meet up with someone who doesn't buy that, and you're going to be in real trouble."

"Haven' yet."

"Times are getting meaner," he said succinctly. "There are fewer around like you and MacLeod, and more like Kalas and his ilk. Come on, this way, no, not that one, the blue one"

He steered her away from the red Taurus she'd headed for and led her over to his own car and opened the passenger door. She started to sit, and he gently used one hand to guide her head carefully under the doorframe when it looked like she was going to hit it as she got in. He walked around to the other side and got in, and they drove to his house in silence, though she was humming a bit of some tune off and on, and seemed bemused by the streetlights.

He parked in front of the house, glad that he had the lights on a timer. Somehow it just seemed more welcoming to come home to a lit house. She opened her door and nearly fell out. He shook his head in amusement as she managed to steady herself and pull herself to her feet using the door. They made quite a pair as they ascended the stairs. Halfway up he thought perhaps he should have taken her around back to the ramp, but it was too late by that point. They both managed to get to the porch unscathed, and she stared around as he unlocked the door. Her gaze was caught by the front window and she pointed at it.

"Pretty."

He wasn't sure if she was referring to the diamond-shaped leading along the upper part of the bay window, or the overall effect of the greenery that filled the big enclosure. Whichever it was, he smiled.

"Thanks, I like it."

He pushed the door open and gestured for her to precede him. She did, and headed straight for the plants. That answered his question. She stood, sniffing the plants, stroking their leaves as if they were pets instead of vegetation. Their presence seemed to invigorate her.

"Welcome to my humble abode," he said, at a loss for what to say. He didn't often have visitors who were neither family or friend. "I'll just go put some sheets on the spare bed and you can hit the hay."

"Pou inei toualeta?" she asked.

He blinked, puzzled. "What?"

"Pou inei. . ." she paused, and tried again. "Ou est la pissoir?"

That one he knew, having spent a lot of time chasing MacLeod around France. He laughed, realizing she was too soused to keep her languages straight, and pointed to the hallway. "Second door on the left."

She nodded and headed for it. He pulled some sheets out of the linen closet and set about making the bed. He was almost finished when he heard the bathroom door open.

"Mr. Dawson?" Nira called, sounding a little lost. He stepped into the doorway so she could see where he was.

"In here, and call me Joe. Mr. Dawson's somebody's grandfather... holy shit!"

His friendly invitation ended in an involuntary exclamation as he saw that she'd appropriated one of his tank-style undershirts to wear as a nightgown. It hung loosely on her small frame, and though it covered more than some of Amanda's outfits, the neck and deep-cut armholes would have revealed a great deal of skin had it not been for the unruly cloud of dark, spiralling curls that covered her shoulders and breasts. He was thoroughly embarrassed to realize she must have gotten the shirt out of the laundry hamper in the bathroom.

"I'd have loaned you a clean one," he muttered as she dropped her sensible flats on the floor by the desk, and managed on the third try to drape her dress over the ladder-backed chair. Her task accomplished, she steadied herself against the wall before replying.

"I don'. . ." she stopped and corrected herself carefully, ". . .don't want to trouble you," she said, eyes fixed on her feet. "I am a nuisance."

"No you're not. It's my fault you're in the state you're in. I'm a bartender, I should know better." He turned back the covers and patted the bed. "Here you go, plant yourself."

She carefully wove her way over to the bed and sat down where his palm had left a slight indentation in the taut sheets. He tried not to notice that the undershirt slid all the way up to her hips as she swung her feet into the bed, but the quick glimpse told him that her dark curls were natural. A little surprised by the surge of interest his body expressed, he mentally lectured himself for even thinking about it when she was in the state she was in. He started for the door and paused there as she wrapped her arms around the pillow and buried her face in it with a deep sigh. Shaking his head and smiling, he turned off the light.

"Goodnight, Nira."

"'G'night, Joe." she said thickly.

* * *

Joe shifted in his sleep, turning onto his side, and something tickled his nose. He pushed at it sleepily, but it came right back as soon as his hand was gone. Wondering what the hell it was, he reached for the light on the nightstand until he opened his eyes and realized it was already light. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, making hazy dust-stripes in the air. A glance at the clock told him it was nearly eleven-thirty in the morning. Almost simultaneously he realized that the stuff in his face was hair, a lot of it. Thick, dark, curly, and attached to a warm, soft, and very female body. Nira murmured in her sleep and moved closer, her nose burrowing under his chin as one of her arms slid under his, her fingers cool against the skin beneath his arm.

He spent a fruitless moment trying to remember just when she'd ended up in his bed. He must have been _really_ sound asleep to have missed that. Finally, he gave up trying to remember and just enjoyed the feel of her against him. It had been a long time since he'd had a woman in his arms like this. It wouldn't last, but for the moment it was a pleasure to savor. He lay quietly, not wanting to wake her, knowing that as soon as she did, she'd be gone in a cloud of curls and embarrassment. She must have gotten up in the night to use the bathroom, and gotten lost. He should have left the light on for her. It was bad enough being in an unfamiliar house in the dark, let alone being _drunk_ in an unfamiliar house in the dark.

Her hair smelled faintly of lemon and mint. She moved again, and the weight of her breasts came more fully against his chest. He closed his eyes and tried to control his reaction, without a lot of success. He could feel his blood making a beeline for his groin, feel the thickening, the stirring there. His hands itched to move lower, to slide beneath the thin cotton knit and caress the full curves of her hips and buttocks. At that moment it was sheer torture, but it just wasn't in his nature to take advantage of a woman. Besides, he thought with wry amusement, she probably had a sword handy, and after a good eight hours of sleep she'd certainly not be too drunk to use it. With a sigh he let go of her and used his elbows and butt to maneuver himself away from her all-too-enticing form.

Though he was moving as carefully as he could so as not to wake her, she stirred, giving a soft moan, and lifted her hands to her head, shielding her eyes from what little sunlight there was, muttering something under her breath in a language he didn't recognize. After a moment she lifted her head, or tried to, and let out a groan that sounded thoroughly miserable. He could sympathize, having been there himself on many an occasion. Somehow it was nice to know that even Immortals got hangovers. He didn't want to startle her, but he had to let her know he was there.

"Feeling a bit under the weather this morning?" he asked gently.

She gasped and sat bolt upright, dropping her hands from her face to stare at him with wide, bloodshot eyes. Her gaze swept him, the bed, then the room, then she closed her eyes again and flopped back onto the pillow with a wince and an exclamation, again in that language he didn't understand. Her face was beet red.

"Translation please?" he queried, trying not to sound as amused as he felt.

"It doesn't translate," she told him.

"Liar." he returned drily.

Her eyes opened again, and this time there was a touch of humor in them. "You're absolutely right, but I should not have said it in any language. How long have I been here?"

He shrugged. "I'm not sure. I just woke up myself."

An odd mixture of disappointment and relief flashed across her face.

"I am sorry, you were kind to let me stay here in my drunken state, and I repay you by appropriating your bed. Forgive me?"

He shook his head, grinning. "No forgiveness required. Truth to tell, I didn't half mind waking up with a lovely lady in my bed."

The color that had receded from her face flared again and she ducked her head, hiding a little behind her hair for a moment before peeking out again. "You are teasing me?" she asked hesitantly.

"Just a little," he agreed.

She smiled. "I thought so. Sometimes Sam teased me too. At first I didn't understand, but now I know what it is."

Joe resisted the urge to shake his head in amazement. He'd met quite a few Immortals in his day, and observed more at a distance. None of them were like her. She was as different as night and day. He was beginning to see how she could convince an Immortal intent on taking her head that to do so would violate practically the only rule the game had. There was an innocence and otherworldliness about her that was strangely deep.

Nira ran a hand through her tangled curls and her expression changed to dismay. "Matres! I didn't braid it! I'll never get this untangled."

"I'll help," he offered.

She looked askance at him. "Teasing again?"

He shook his head. "My sister has hair like yours. When we were growing up, if Mom was at work I got called on to help her fix it up for dates. I know how to do it. But I've got to take care of a few things first." He looked meaningfully toward his chair beside the bed, then at the extra-wide door that led into the master bathroom.

She looked at the wheelchair, then back at him, and he saw the light dawn. She scrambled out of bed, flashing a bit of derriere in the process. "I am so sorry! Forgive me!"

"Will you cut that out?" he asked, exasperated. "I mean it! There's nothing to be sorry for! Don't you ever say you're sorry again."

She caught her lower lip between her teeth and gave a small nod. "As you say. It is a bad habit of mine, Sam told me that too. I'll go and dress now." She sidled from the room as if trying to make herself as small as possible.

As he swung himself out of bed and into his chair, Joe realized that despite the fact that Sam had been a friend, and he hadn't even really had time to grieve his passing, he was getting a little tired of hearing about what Sam had done for Nira Groves. The only thing that made him feel better was a strange certainty that whatever else he had been to her, he hadn't been her lover.

* * *

Nira had to admit she felt better after downing the fizzy and vile-tasting concoction Joe had handed her through the half-closed door of the room she _should_ have woken up in. Of course, it made sense that a bartender would know how to help a "hangover", as he called it. After dressing, it had taken her quite some time to tame her hair with the small brush from her purse. By the time she'd finally managed it, she'd heard him in the kitchen. She'd half expected him to be in his chair, which had to be more comfortable than his artificial legs, but when she came into the kitchen to find him staring into the refrigerator, he'd been upright. He closed the door with a sigh and turned a rueful glance to her.

"If I'd known I was gonna have company I'd've gone grocery shopping. Not much there but a couple of rock-hard bagels and some condiments, unless you want to count all the science projects."

"Science projects?" she queried. "I did not know you were a scientist, too. What do you study?"

He laughed, shaking his head. She liked how he laughed, and how often he did it. "I meant all the leftovers I have in there with mold growing on them. There may be some previously undiscovered life-forms lurking in my refrigerator."

She laughed, understanding. She'd grown quite a few of those 'cultures' herself over the centuries. "May I take you to breakfast in return for your hospitality?"

For a moment she thought he was going to refuse, but then he cocked his head slightly to one side and studied her until she felt her color rise under his bright blue gaze, and finally he nodded.

"You know, I'd like that."

She felt relieved and pleased at his acceptance. She didn't want to part company with him yet. She felt an odd connection to him, an ease she'd never found with anyone else, not even Sam. At the same time he made her feel things that she'd buried for so long she had thought them gone forever. That warm pulse low in her belly, that tightening in her breasts, the knot of anticipation under her sternum. It had been so long since she'd felt those things, not since Sylvanus had she let herself feel them.

She pushed away his memory with a shudder and turned to find Joe watching her, his gaze sharp and curious. He knew she'd been remembering. It was a strange feeling to be with someone who knew things like that, especially a mortal. Sam had known some things, but he hadn't been as intelligent as Joe, or as discerning. As if sensing that his interest had disconcerted her, he pushed himself away from the counter he was leaning on and held out a hand.

"Come on, I know a place with beignets to die for, and their scrambled eggs with andouille are even better. I'll even drive," he offered magnanimously.

Nira laughed, knowing full well that her rental car was still parked in front of the bar, and took his arm. He guided her out the back door, using his cane only lightly, and she realized why he'd gone that way when she saw the long, gently sloping ramp that led away from the door to a sidewalk that ran the length of the house and ended near where he had parked his car. She wondered how he'd lost his legs. It must have been difficult to adjust to life without them in a world geared toward those who were "whole," whatever that word meant. She'd known many people with two sound limbs who seemed far less whole than Joe Dawson.

He opened the car door for her and she got in, remembering the feel of his hand on her hair as he'd guided her into the vehicle the night before. She shivered a little as he went around to the other side, and she hoped he hadn't noticed. She thought about his offer to help with her hair, and was suddenly annoyed with herself for not taking him up on it. 'Coward,' she thought despondently. 'You're a coward.'

"Something wrong?" Joe asked as he started the car and pulled away from the house.

She shook her head. "Nothing, just a little headache still."

"Food'll help that. And water, lots of water. That's the best way to keep a hangover from happening is to drink a lot of water."

"I'll have to remember that next time, though it seems to me that the best way to keep from having a hangover is not to overindulge in the first place."

He chuckled as he turned from the residential street onto a busier thoroughfare. "You have a point. You know, I can't believe you've never been drunk before! I thought by your age you'd have pretty much done it all."

She felt as if a wall of glass had suddenly come between them. No longer were they just man and woman, they were Mortal and Immortal, and the tenuous connection she'd thought was building between them was severed. She tried to think of a humorous answer, but before she did, he spoke again.

"Me and my big mouth. Forget I said that. Forget I even thought it. I know better than that. Sorry."

She looked at him, and found him staring at the road ahead, his mouth set in a thin, uncompromising line For the first time she saw the doubt in him, and it made her feel better. He wasn't infallible either. She reached out tentatively and touched his arm.

"It's all right. I don' t mind."

"Yes you do, and you should. It's none of my business."

"Really, I don't mind." She was surprised to realize she meant it. "If you want to know, I will tell you. In my early days, it was a stoning offense for a priestess to be seen publicly in a state of intoxication. I learned that lesson well, so well that for a very long time I never even considered breaking it. Eventually it became a point of pride, and finally it simply seemed practical, after seeing what alcohol can do. Last night I didn't think at all about what I was doing, and it just took me by surprise."

He grinned. "So I noticed. How's your head?"

"Better now, thank you."

He nodded. "Good. I thought you might need a little something for the morning after. Here we go." He steered the car into the small parking lot next to a Victorian house that was beautifully brilliant in "Painted Lady" yellows and oranges. A patio filled with umbrellaed tables occupied part of the front yard. All the tables were full. Nira saw a small sign out front which proclaimed the establishment to be "Tante Louise's." There were quite a few people either sitting on the benches that lined the porch, or gathered in small groups on the sidewalk, obviously waiting to be seated. Nira looked at the crowd dubiously.

"Perhaps we should go somewhere else, it seems we'll have a long wait here."

Joe just shook his head. "I don't think so."

He got out of the car, and gestured for her to stay seated while came around to open her door. It seemed odd, it had been so long since anyone had done that for her. They walked over to the podium where a young woman in a gauzy dress was taking names in a reservation book. She looked up, saw Joe, and her face lit up.

"Uncle Joe!" she exclaimed, brushing back a lock of thick, dark hair. Apparently Joe hadn't lied when he said his sister had hair much like Nira's. Her daughter had apparently inherited it.

He grinned and shot Nira a look that told her this was his secret for getting seated more quickly. "Nira, this is my niece Bethany Horton. Beth, I'd like to introduce you to Nira Groves."

Bethany held out her hand and took Nira's in a slightly awkward but enthusiastic grip, then her eyes widened. "Oh, wow! The Nira Groves, of Cornucopia Project?"

Nira was taken aback by her recognition, but she nodded. "The same."

Her hand was pumped even more ardently as the young woman gushed. "I am so stoked to meet you! This is too much! I've volunteered for the Project on campus for two years now! Uncle Joe never told me he knew you," she shot him a reproachful look before continuing. "But I guess I shouldn't be surprised. It seems like he knows just about everyone who's interesting."

"Actually, we just met," Nira said tactfully, absolving Joe of having withheld important information from his niece without telling her any embarrassing details. "We had a mutual friend who passed away recently."

Bethany sobered immediately. "Oh god, I'm sorry! You must think I'm just a total dink to go on and on like that!"

Nira shook her head. "Not at all, and it's nice to meet someone who cares about the Project, especially someone so young."

Bethany eyed her with a lifted eyebrow. "Yeah, like you're sooo old!" she teased, just like her uncle was wont to do, before turning to him. "You guys here for breakfast?"

"We surely are," he assented.

Bethany waved over one of the waiters, and handed him two menus. "David, you take special care of my Uncle Joe and Ms. Groves. Put them at table sixteen, okay?"

David, who seemed to be gazing at Beth with more than co-workerly fondness, nodded and opened the gate to the patio, holding it for them. "Right this way."

Nira followed Joe, feeling guilty as she sensed the narrowed eyes of jealous would-be diners on her back. "Joe, this isn't fair. . ." she began.

He turned and winked. "Nope, it sure ain't. But if I can't pull strings now and then what good am I?"

* * *

Breakfast was as good as promised. Surprisingly hungry after the way she'd felt when she'd woken up that morning, Nira had eaten two of the sugary beignets, and an order of eggs florentine, accompanied by a sinfully wonderful mocha latté. She and Joe had argued briefly over the check before Nira had snuck it off the table when Beth had come back on her break to say hello again and fill in her uncle on her current college schedule. Feigning a need to use the ladies' room, Nira had handed the fee and generous tip to David-the-waiter, and by the time Joe remembered he hadn't paid the bill they had been halfway through the scenic tour that he had insisted on conducting after learning that Nira had never been to Seacouver before. The ensuing altercation had led to a leisurely and delicious lunch at a seafood restaurant on the shore of a quiet bay, this time paid for by Joe. After that, he'd reluctantly told her he had to be back at the bar by four, and the ride back into the city proper had been quiet and a little strained, for the first time all day. They arrived back at the bar, and Nira had thanked him, and walked toward her rental car, still parked where she'd left it the night before.

"Nira?" Joe called.

She turned quickly. "Yes?"

He tilted his head a little, and she saw him chew the inside of his lower lip, then finally he spoke. "Where are you staying?"

Flustered, she told him the truth. "I don't know, I hadn't thought about it yet."

He seemed relieved, and a slow smile curved his mouth. "Well, you could stay at Chez Dawson and save the money you would have spent on a hotel to donate to your favorite charity."

It took her just a moment to realize what he was asking, but when it sank in she felt a blush paint her face, and her stomach knotted uncomfortably. She opened her mouth to refuse, politely, and heard something entirely different come out of her mouth.

"Thank you, I'd like that."

Aghast, she started to correct herself when the look on his face stopped her. Open, honest, and frankly hopeful. No one had ever looked at her like that before. No one she trusted, anyway. But this man, she trusted. Perhaps that was foolish, and she might very well regret making this decision, but she finally had one foot on the rope bridge over the chasm she'd avoided crossing for two millennia, and she wasn't about to step back now. She wanted desperately to see what was on the other side. He held out his hand, as if assisting her in her quest, though his words were prosaic.

"Come on in, you can help out until it's time to go home."

She took his hand, and let him draw her into the bar's dark, industrial interior.

* * *

Somehow he sensed she wasn't ready. Nira followed Joe home in her rented red Taurus, but when they entered the house he kissed her lightly on the forehead and told her to get some rest. Disappointed and yet relieved, she had taken her bag into the spare bedroom and hidden there until she heard his door close. She made a quick trip to the bathroom to wash up and attend to her other needs, then slipped quickly back into "her" room to lie tense and far from sleep long into the night. Finally, close to dawn, she made up her mind, and took the next step onto the bridge.

She searched through her clothing to find the sexiest thing she had with her, which was really just a plain ivory silk slip with a touch of hand-tatted lace adorning the rather demure neckline. None of her clothes had been chosen with an eye toward attracting a man. She had bought it because it felt nice against her skin, and because the lace was pretty. She put it on, and stood for a moment trying to see herself in the small mirror over the desk. Her hair was bound in a thick braid that lay against her back like a club. Hesitantly she pulled off the elastic that held it and raked her fingers through the mass, freeing it to coil around her face and over her shoulders. Better, though she made a face at the way her rather wide hips made the slip wrinkle a little at her waist. Perhaps the matching fullness of her breasts might distract the eye. . . his eye. . . from that.

She wore no makeup, indeed she didn't own any, but at that moment she wished she had the services of a cosmetician to give her face a touch of seductiveness. She stared into the mirror and saw only her paleness, and the almost tangible apprehension in her face. She pinched her cheeks and bit her lips - tactics as old as woman- to give herself a little color, and set her hand on the doorknob. It rattled as her hand shook, and she grasped it more firmly and opened the door. The house was dark and quiet. Somehow that made it easier to walk to his door and listen. She heard nothing but the slight, regular sigh of his breathing. Asleep. She smiled ruefully, so much for her imaginings that he too lay awake and tense. Well, last night she'd ended up in his bed by accident. Tonight would be intentional.

With a spill of moonlight through the window to help her see, Nira walked across the room, carefully lifted the covers, and gently eased down into bed beside him. He stirred a little, and she tensed, but he settled again quickly. She let out her held breath, and relaxed a little. After awhile, her nervousness surrendered to her lack of sleep, and her eyes drifted closed.

* * *

For the second morning in a row, Joe Dawson woke with a warm, soft form pressed against his own. This time he smiled, knowing exactly who it was. Nira had come to him in the night again, this time without the excuse of being too drunk to know what she was doing. Still, remembering her hesitancy from the night before, he knew better than to make any assumptions. Carefully he eased away from her, so she wouldn't wake up and be disconcerted by the unmistakable signs of his interest. As soon as he did, she stiffened. At that moment he realized that she'd been awake, and nearly groaned. Hell. He'd messed up again. It had been deliberate, and he knew as well as he knew his name that she thought he'd just turned her down. While he tried to think of some romantic way to disabuse her of that idea, she lifted her head and studied him for a long moment, then looked away, her lower lip caught between her teeth as a blush stained her cheeks deep rose.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, and started to slide out of bed.

Cursing under his breath he reached out and caught her by the edge of the little slip-like thing she wore before she could get all the way out. "Hold it!"

She stopped, probably mostly because further movement might tear the delicate silk in his hand, and she looked back at him, her expression that of a kid with her hand in the cookie jar.

"I'm the one who should be sorry. I'm not usually dense." he offered with a self-deprecating smile. "It's just that I wanted to let you sleep until you were ready to wake up on your own. I didn't realize you were already awake."

She absorbed that, and a tentative smile hovered on her lips. "You don't mind?"

He laughed. "Mind?" his tone told her how ludicrous that was. Then he sobered. "But do you mind if I ask you a question?"

Her lip went back between her teeth for a moment, then finally she shook her head, though she didn't say a word.

"Why?" he asked. There were two questions in that one, why me, and why now? He wasn't sure which she would answer, if either.

She drew her feet back up onto the bed and wrapped her arms around her knees, staring off into the distance. When she finally spoke, her words were low, almost whispered.

"Many reasons. Because you touch me. Yesterday. . . no one has ever accepted me like that before. No one ever wanted me despite what I am instead of because of it. I listened to you sing, and your songs speak to a part of me that I've always been careful to pretend didn't exist. Death has become too close a companion to me, and I need something to help me remember life. And lastly, because you're a good and gentle man, and will be patient with me."

Whatever he'd expected her to say, that hadn't been it. He was touched, and saddened, and oddly aroused. Still, some flicker of insecurity made him push it.

"You could do better than me, I'm pretty beat up."

She looked at him then, her gray gaze steady, and slowly shook her head. "No, Joseph, I don't believe I could."

That hit him like a punch in the stomach, and he let his breath out in a slow hiss. "You give a mean compliment, lady."

Her face fell. "No, I did not intend to be mean!"

Realizing she'd misunderstood he hurriedly corrected her. "That's a colloquialism, it means you give good compliments."

She smiled suddenly, and looked pleased. "Oh! Do you think so?"

He nodded and caught her hand, tugging her toward him. "Come back here and let's see if we can start this over again."

She did the lip-biting thing again then, but slowly eased down onto the bed beside him. He reached out and slid his hand beneath the heavy fall of her hair, cupping the back of her head, tilting her face so his lips could meet hers comfortably. She was quiet beneath his kiss, her lips warm, soft, and unresponsive. Puzzled, he lifted his head.

"Am I going too fast?"

She shook her head, and refused to meet his eyes. That puzzled him even more. He put a finger under her chin and tipped her head back until she was forced to either look at him or close her eyes completely. She looked nervous, and worried. Not emotions he commonly associated with making love.

"Hey, sweetheart, what's the matter?" he asked gently. "Something wrong?"

She looked away, her eyes flickering right, then left in an attempt to look at anything but him. He was starting to get a little nervous. What was the problem? Suddenly paranoid, he wondered if she was waiting for someone else to show up. Had this been a setup of some kind? He started to sit up, only to have her grab for him.

"No, please, don't go! I want this, but I'm just not sure what to do!"

He lay back against the pillows, regarding her with a mixture of confusion and suspicion.

"You mind telling me just what's going on here? You say you want to, but you sure don't act like it."

Dark color burned across her cheeks again, and she looked utterly miserable. "I'm sorry, I'm not very good at this. What should I do? What would please you?"

While he found it a little hard to accept that fact that a woman her age could really be a lousy lover, he guessed it was actually possible. So much depended on what sort of partners she'd had before. Just because one was an Immortal didn't guarantee good relationships. In fact, more than likely, it precluded them. He hadn't read her chronicles, maybe that would be enlightening. Maybe she'd ended up with a succession of rotten lovers that had never bothered with foreplay, or the kind of slow, easy loving he preferred. She was still waiting for an answer to her question, her expression endearingly earnest.

"What would please me?" Joe echoed. "Pleasing you would please me, but let's have you try kissing me back, for starters."

Nira's gaze went to his mouth, and she moistened her lips with her tongue. Good start. She drew breath to say something, and before she could speak, he pulled her to him and covered her mouth with his, laughing as he tasted her for the first time. She pulled back in obvious surprise for a moment, then her eyelids lowered and her mouth found his again, tentatively. This time her lips softened beneath his, and when he began to make the kiss more intimate, her tongue stole cautiously out to meet his. She gave delicate little licks, like a cat but not so rough.

Joe settled her more comfortably against him, feeling the soft give of her breasts against him, but as he stroked his hands down her back, he could also feel the tension that still held her. He'd have to work harder to get her past that. Sometimes it was like that for women, their first time with him. They worried about a lot of stuff they didn't need to worry about. After the first time, they knew better.

He began to stroke her back, his fingers massaging her lightly through the soft fabric, moving ever lower until they found the flare of her hips, then he worked his way back up again. Once at her shoulders, he let them journey downward again, this time stealing an inch lower before he reversed direction. He lifted his mouth from hers finally, and began to kiss other spots. Her eyelids, the curve of a cheek, her ear. Nira shivered when his mouth found the juncture of shoulder and neck, and he paused there, nibbling, until she lifted her hands from the bed to thread her fingers through his hair and hold him there, a soft breath of pleasure escaping her.

Smiling, Joe let his hands soothe down her back again, this time finding the soft rise of her buttocks. She tensed a little more as he curved his hands over the full mounds, but relaxed quickly as he moved them back upward. He would definitely have to read her chronicles. It wasn't right that she should be so skittish about loving. Someone hadn't treated her the way she deserved to be treated. He was determined to rectify that. If he hadn't known better he'd have guessed she'd never made love before, but at her age she could hardly be a virgin. As soon as he thought it, the realization hit him like the proverbial bolt from the blue. The idea startled him so much that he actually jerked in response to it, and lifted his head to stare at her with growing incredulity. Her eyes widened and got that worried look, so he figured he'd better say something.

"Nira, have you ever made love before?"

Her already flushed face grew even pinker and her gaze fell. She bit her lip, which he'd come to realize was a sure sign that she was nervous and embarrassed. For a long, awkward moment she didn't answer, then, finally, she shook her head.

The motion confirmed his incredulous suspicion. No. She hadn't. The very idea that she could possibly be a virgin stunned him silent. From what he knew of Immortals, it seemed that usually, once they figured out they were safe from the dangers of sexually transmitted diseases and pregnancy, they embraced their sexuality with open arms. He ran a hand through his hair and took a long, deep breath.

"Well, now, talk about your performance anxiety!" he joked, hoping to put her more at ease.

Nira paled. "I- I'm sorry, I didn't realize. . . I should not have told you!"

Realizing she'd misunderstood, he quickly corrected her. "No, I meant for you, not me. It's got to be a little tough for you. But now that I know, it'll be easier, because there won't be any more misunderstandings, right?" Joe waited, got no answer, and prompted her again.. "Right?"

Her eyes searched his, and whatever she found there seemed to calm her. She nodded, a tentative smile curving her mouth. "Right. No more misunderstandings. I was right about you, Joseph Dawson. You're a very special man. I- was afraid."

"Of me?" Joe asked, stunned.

"No! Not of you, but that you would think me strange. . .or odd."

Joe shook his head. "Not strange, or odd. Unique, and special, perhaps. Tell me something, though. I don't understand how you could possibly still be. . . " he hesitated, not wanting to sound crass.

She finished his sentence for him. "A virgin?" At his nod, she sighed and smiled wryly. "Somehow I knew you would ask that."

"Nothing says you have to answer."

"Yes, something does. Trust, and respect demand it of me, and I willingly give those to you." She lay back down, resting her head against his shoulder. "I was a mortal child when I was given to be a priestess. As I matured, my position demanded chastity, as I was dedicated to the Kore."

"The corey?" Joe asked, unfamiliar with the term.

"The Maiden aspect of the Goddess. Mythologically you might know her as Artemis, or Athena. Priestesses who were dedicated to the Mother or Crone aspects were not expected to be chaste, but I was. After my first death and recovery I thought I must have been chosen by the Lady for some special purpose, and so I held myself apart and aloof. Gradually, those of my own kind sought me out, and I learned what I was, and the rules by which we live. That was when I realized that my vocation was also my salvation. No Immortal would dare take my head so long as I remained a priestess." Nira took a breath and let it sigh out, looking around.

Guessing her need, Joe reached over and got the glass of water from his nightstand. She accepted it gratefully and drank several swallows, managing to spill a little because of the awkward angle at which she was drinking. The spilled droplets gleamed like diamonds on her throat, and he had to resist the urge to lick them off her, wanting to hear the rest of her story before they proceeded. She handed him the glass and he put it down as she took a deep breath and resumed her story.

"Times changes, morals changed- yet remained oddly the same. There's an old saying I have heard- 'the more things change, the more they stay the same,' you've no idea how true that is. The times were such that being chaste was the only way to have the respect of others, and to be frank, I had met no one who tempted me to be otherwise. Finally, though, I met Sylvanus. He was an Immortal, like me, he understood me, and he was so, so beautiful. I loved him, or thought I did, and he courted me gently at first, pushing only a little for me to abandon my chastity and embrace him.

She sighed, shaking her head as if at her own naivete, then went on. "The longer we were together, though, the more he pushed, and the shorter his temper became. What I didn't realize was that Sylvanus wanted my Quickening more than my love. He thought that by taking my body, he would take my vocation as well, and that would make me vulnerable to his blade. It wasn't until the night he tried to rape me that I realized just how well he had deceived me. Fortunately a friend who lived nearby heard my cries for help and he came to my defense."

Joe tightened his arm around her, hoping to communicate his sympathy through that touch. "I'm sorry, Nira. What a bastard! I'm glad your friend was there to help."

She nodded. "As was I. The Lady sent him to me that night, I'm sure it was Her doing that placed him near enough to hear my cries and come to help."

"I hope Sylvanus didn't hurt him for defending you."

Nira laughed. "Quite the opposite. Sylvanus sought my head, but lost his own instead."

"This friend was an Immortal as well?" Joe asked, wondering if this story were in her Chronicle. He wanted to find out who it had been, and write him a thank-you note.

She nodded. "He was. In fact, it was he who first told me of the Watchers. He'd tried for years to convince me that I needed to learn to defend myself. After Sylvanus, I knew he was right. Petros taught me the fighting skills I needed, and I've been grateful for them."

"Have you had to use them a lot?"

She shook her head. "Never against another Immortal, though they have occasionally been beneficial against mortals. I don't quite understand how my reputation came to be so well known among my own kind, but it seems all I have to do is mention my name and any Immortal who has found me has left me alone."

"You are pretty unique that way." Joe was quiet for a moment, before he finally asked the question foremost in his mind. "Was he right?"

"Was who right?"

"Sylvanus. Would taking you have given him your head?"

She smiled suddenly, and turned to lie more fully against him, her breasts warm and soft against his chest. "You are concerned that if we make love, I will lose my protection, aren't you?"

He nodded, his gaze serious. "I won't do that to you, there are ways to make love that don't involve penetration. We can share each other without risking you in any way."

She leaned over and kissed him softly, and when she drew back, her eyes were suspiciously bright. "Joseph, you don't disappoint me. But, the answer is no. What Sylvanus didn't understand is that I will always serve my Lady, and She doesn't care what aspect I wear."

Joe let out a sigh of relief, and slowly began to stroke a hand across Nira's back, skimming lightly with just the tips of his fingers until she shivered a little under his touch and hunched her shoulders.

"That tickle?" he asked blandly.

"A little," she admitted. "But it's also... something else."

"A good something or a bad something?"

She glanced up at him from beneath her lush eyelashes in a way that he would have read as coy or flirtatious in anyone else- and maybe even in her. She hadn't lived as long as she had without picking up a few things. But when she finally she replied, she was straightforward and honest, as he had come to expect from her.

"Good."

He chuckled. "That's good, 'cause I plan to do it some more."

"I would like that, I think," Nira admitted. "I feel like your guitar must feel when you play- every string vibrating."

He smiled at her metaphor and let his fingers trace guitar chords on her skin, fingers playing idly, using patterns learned for a very different purpose. She made a little purring sound and then looked at him again, her eyes gleaming with amusement and desire.

"Am I a major or a minor chord?" she queried, turning her head so his fingers could find the sensitive hollow of her throat.

Joe deliberated for a moment before speaking, amused and intrigued by the question. "Minor. Full of complexity, and a little sad, but beautiful and expressive and touching."

Nira sighed and lifted her mouth to his. This time when their lips met, hers were soft, moist, and responsive. He cradled her head in his hands and used his thumbs to stroke lightly along her jaw until her lips parted, then he played his tongue over the silky inner surfaces of her mouth. He felt her tense for a startled moment, then she relaxed and she met him with artless sensuality. Oh yes, things were working this time.

He eased a hand down her back , over her thigh, until he found the edge of the chemise she wore. His fingers stole beneath it, and moved upward until his hand rested on the bare curve of her hip. Her skin was as creamy-textured as the silk, but far warmer and more resilient. She shifted under his touch, and her hand moved to cover his, the fabric a fragile barrier between her hand and his, then her hand urged his upward. Joe grinned, and let his fingers smooth over the womanly curve of her belly, over the tense muscles in her midriff, then finally his fingers cupped the soft roundness of her breast, feeling the nipple furl against his palm. He moved his hand slightly and took that taut bud in his callused fingers, teasing it lightly.

Nira gasped, her fingers moving to splay over his, her chemise still a tantalizing veil between their skin. Gradually she eased the pressure a little and he shifted his fingers again, stroking them across the sensitive peak of her nipple. She made a little sound in her throat and arched her back, lifting her breasts higher. He could see the hard crest of her other nipple tenting the camisole, and he leaned over to kiss it, wetting the silk so it became translucent to the dark aureole beneath it, the fabric so thin and fine that he could feel each tiny ridge of the pebbled flesh beneath it with his tongue. Her hand cupped his head, fingers sliding through his tarnished-silver hair, holding his mouth against her.

"That's lovely," she sighed, stroking his hair.

Joe lifted his head. "That's just the beginning sweetheart. Now, let's get this off you. . ." he took the hem of her chemise in his hands and began to raise it. Nira grabbed it and held it down.

"No, I-" she began, biting her lip. "I am not so pretty."

Joe shook his head, chuckling. "Darlin' you ain't seen not pretty until you get a good look at yours truly. If I'm not embarrassed to be naked with you, you shouldn't be embarrassed to be naked with me. I don't know what moron told you that you aren't pretty, but they weren't playing with a full deck. You're lovely and warm, round and soft, everything a woman should be. Relax, and let go now. I want to touch you all over, and I can't unless you let go."

Slowly Nira released the fabric, sharply creased where she'd clutched it. He eased it up, and finally off over her head. As she lowered her arms, her hair cascaded down around her breasts, hiding them. Dropping her slip beside the bed, he gently brushed her hair out of the way, baring her completely. She put one hand and arm across her breasts, the other shielded the dark curls of her mons, for all the world like a Botticelli Venus. Joe smiled and gently tugged her arm away from her breasts, leaving the other where it was, for now. He lowered his head to the soft cleft between her breasts and drank in the rich, warm, scent of her, like amber and vanilla. It made him hungry. He began to kiss a path down the center of her body, easing lower and lower until his lips grazed the little bare spot just above her mons, where he felt her tense as she realized where he was going.

"Don't say it," he whispered, lifting his head to gaze up at her, seeing the mixture of desire and nervousness on her face.

Her expression grew puzzled. "Don't say what?"

"Don't say no, sweetheart. Don't stop me. Let me love you like you deserve to be loved."

Color flooded her face, but her gaze softened. He waited, his breath held, and finally she replied.

"I won't. I'm just-"

"I know. And it's okay. There's a first time for everything."

She actually laughed at that. Realizing he was going a little fast for her, he slowed down and stroked a hand down her thigh, over her calf, then found her foot and lifted it, massaging it. She moaned in pleasure, her head falling back against the pillows. He chuckled. He hadn't met a woman yet who didn't react like that to a foot-massage. Switching his attentions to her other foot, he worked until he could feel the tension flowing out of her. He leaned forward and nibbled on her hip just as a brilliant flash of light lit the room, accompanied by a crack of thunder. Nira jumped about a foot, gasping, and Joe's heart was racing as fast as he could feel hers, where her pulse beat under his thumbs. She lay back slowly, a hand on her chest as she laughed breathlessly.

"I have heard lovemaking compared to lightning, but didn't think it would be quite so literal."

A joke! She was actually comfortable enough to make a joke! Progress, definite progress. He grinned, and laughed. "That's a new one on me, too. I guess it's like I said, there's a first time for everything! He glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand and noticed that its face was dark. "Power's out."

Nira nodded. "It must have been very close. . . the flash and the sound were at the same time."

He grinned. "I guess that means we've got a pretty powerful spark between us."

She smiled back. "I think we do."

Outside it began to rain, not gently, but in a pounding deluge. The sound washed over them, cooling just by its sound. Joe sighed. "I'm glad it's finally raining, we've needed it. Now maybe the fire danger will come down."

Nira reached out to touch his shoulder, and his eyes went to hers as she smiled. "Perhaps outside, it will." His eyes widened in surprise as she leaned toward him, her hand slipping from his shoulder to his chest. He had expected it to take a bit longer before she worked up the courage to reciprocate his caresses. She slid a fingertip across one of his nipples, watched intently as it hardened, then smiled and repeated the caress on the other side. Joe sucked in a breath, his body flooding with desire at her inexperienced touch. There was something incredibly erotic about her curiosity. He held still as her hand moved lower, then hesitated at the edge of the sheet just below his waist.

She traced a finger back and forth across his abdomen just above the cloth, and Joe closed his eyes, mentally encouraging her to resume her explorations. Finally she did, her fingers cool against his rapidly overheating skin. The side of her hand just brushed his cock, and she froze, her gaze fixed on the sheet where it hid him from her. He waited again, trying very hard to keep from telling her what to do. She needed to be the one to decide how much, how soon.

She bit her lip. Joe bit his to keep from smiling. It was getting to where every time she did that, he wanted to do it for her, gently, and then soothe it with his tongue. As he watched, her expression became very determined, and she moved her hand the inch or so needed, settling her palm directly over the length of his penis. He took a deep breath through clenched teeth, and she lifted her hand, looking at him with her dark eyes full of concern.

"Did I hurt you?"

He shook his head. "Not a bit, love, just the opposite. Go on, if you want to."

Her hand descended again, her fingers closing around him, cool and firm, but rapidly warming as his head pervaded her. Her eyes closed as she adjusted her grip, her thumb grazing the silky tip. Involuntarily he arched a little, and she smiled slightly.

"It feels good?" she asked.

"Very good," he confirmed.

"Show me more?" she asked in a voice he might have called demanding under other circumstances.

Joe wasn't sure if she meant for him to show her how to touch him, or for him to touch her more. He opted for the latter, and his hand smoothed up her thigh to the soft curls between her thighs. He edged a finger into the cleft at the top of her mons, and she shuddered, clenching her thighs around his hand. Fortunately, the motion only trapped his finger directly against her most sensitive spot, and he grinned as she moved against his hand with an instinctive undulation. He felt moisture under his hand, slick, thick, silky. He imagined what that wetness would feel like on him, what her lush body would feel like around him, and pushed himself into her hand again.

She got the hint, and slowly stroked her hand up his shaft, then back down. He put his hand over hers, showing her the rhythm he needed. She followed it, and laughed in delight as she felt his immediate response. It also distracted her into relaxing her thighs, which he took advantage of, putting a hand against her knee and pushing gently outward. She let him, giving no resistance this time, not even when his fingers moved to open her more intimately. There was tension in her body, but not like before, not the tension of fear, but a very different and welcome tautness. He teased a finger around her warm, soft folds, accustoming her to his touch, and felt her response in the way her hand quickened and tightened on his rigid flesh. He covered her hand to slow her down again with a rueful grin.

"Sorry, sweetheart, but keep that up and you'll have to wait awhile longer to find out what making love is really like."

"Why?" she pouted, and he almost laughed.

"Because, I'm not as young as I once was, and my recovery rate's a little slower than it used to be. Joe admitted frankly, wondering if she could ever understand the realities of aging.

Nira stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, then realization came. "Oh! You like it too well?"

He grinned. "Exactly. Let's just concentrate on you for now."

She nodded so enthusiastically that he had to hide a smile as he returned his attention to her body. He let his head rest on her thigh as his fingers took up their task again. The vanilla-amber musk of her was even stronger here. Was it natural, or had she touched a drop of scent to the well of her body? It was hard to believe a virgin would dare that much, but then again, Nira was the first two-thousand year old virgin he'd ever met. Undoubtedly she knew far more on an intellectual level than she had actually experienced. He continued to arouse her, working methodically until she was literally squirming under his hands. Finally she tugged on his hair with what sounded like an oath, though he couldn't understand it.

"Joseph! Stop teasing me!" she demanded imperiously. "I need. . . I need. . . something more!"

He grinned. "Your word is my command." He rolled over her thigh, pinning her in place as he lowered his mouth to the moist, fragrant depths of her. She let out a sound that an ungenerous soul might have likened to a squeal, and grabbed his ears as if she could drag him away using them, then seemed to change her mind, her hands fluttering for a moment before she threaded her fingers into his hair and held him to her, gasping each time his tongue found a sensitive spot. Her gasp turned to a startled cry when he eased a finger into her depths for the first time, and her hips tilted upward. He eased another finger into her, carefully stretching and easing her narrow passage until she was able to accept his fingers easily within her, all the time using his lips and tongue to drive her higher. She began to rock, a rhythmic, searching movement, and he obliged her, letting her set the pace. Within moments her tight sheath fluttered around his fingers, her whole body shaking as she found release, a long, low moan escaping her.

"That's it, sweetheart. Perfect. Just like that," he encouraged her, letting his fingers still so she could experience her climax completely.

* * *

It was like music, Nira thought, as he taught her. His lips, his deep, rough-edged voice persuading her to relax, to open to his touch, to his wonderful, remarkable hands, and his mouth. The combination of sensations, his fingers sliding inside her, caressing a place she'd never let anyone touch, and his lips against almost painfully sensitive skin, made her gasp with startled wonder. He played her, he made her body sing with aching need, and for the first time embrace the full spectrum of sensation of which she was capable. It was magic, as much magic as any Quickening. She'd only experienced only once, and that indirectly, her body struck by a backlash of the energy Petros had absorbed into himself as he had beheaded Sylvanus.

As the sensations gradually subsided, fading with each pulse of blood through her body, she wondered why she had waited so long. Even as she wondered it, she knew the answer. She had waited because she needed to wait, for this man. Not that no other man could have brought her this feeling, but that until now she had never been ready, and until now no man had been quite what she needed. Everything happened in its season, and this was her time to leave the Maiden behind. It made a strange kind of sense for her first lover to be a mortal, in an odd way reversing the myth of Hades and Persephone.

Nira opened her eyes and looked down at him, smiling at the self-satisfied grin on his face. She reached down and touched his lips with her fingers, shivering as she remembered what they had done to her.

"I suppose you have the right to look like that," she said wryly. "After what you've done to me. I think I understand a great deal more about the world than I did an hour ago."

Joe chuckled. "I don't think it was that mystical, darlin'. No revelation, just your garden variety orgasm."

"Garden variety?"

"Ordinary."

She shook her head. "I don't think there's anything ordinary about something that feels that good. I have spent a very long time being a fool, haven't I?"

He shook his head. "Not a fool, just a human being. We all have our fears and foibles."

A human being. How long had she wanted someone, anyone, who would think of her that way? Someone who knew who and what she was, yet accepted her no matter. Her eyes filled with tears and she put her hands over her face to hide them. He moved up next to her, taking her hands in his.

"Stop that now," he ordered firmly. "No crying in this bed. If you want to cry we'll go in the living room and I'll play you some sad songs. That'll give you something to cry about."

Nira lifted her mouth to his and kissed him fiercely, then drew back. "Thank you, Joseph, for being such a wise man, but I don't want to hear any sad songs. I want you." She reached for him, then hesitated a moment, blushing, as she realized she didn't really know what to do next. Joe studied her face, guessed her trouble, and winked.

"Just climb on, sweetheart, and take ol' Joe for a ride."

She stared at him, not quite believing he'd said that, then realizing she could indeed believe it. He was a very earthy man. Climb on? Very well. She could manage that. A slow smile curved her mouth as she pushed him onto his back and drew her fingers through the thicket of soft, wiry hair that furred his chest. She studied him openly, taking in all the old scars, and the raw places and calluses left by his prosthetics. Her jaw tightened in anger against the madness that had done this to him. On their drive, earlier that day, he had told her that he had lost his legs in war. It angered her that mankind still fought and killed over land, and petty differences. It seemed they should have learned better by now. She leaned down to kiss each scar she could find, each callus. Before she had placed more than three kisses, he urged her firmly away.

"Don't," he said evenly. It was clear that his arousal had fled, and in his eyes she read an odd distance. With a rush of dismay she realized he thought she pitied him. She shook her head, and brought her mouth to his, kissing him deeply before she drew back to explain.

"It makes me angry that men still do this to each other. Death I understand, accidents, whether of birth or nature, I can understand, but to deliberately cause this kind of harm to another is inhuman. Even I know that. That's all I was feeling a moment ago. Anger, and a wish that I could have helped to ease your pain."

The relief in his eyes almost hurt. Nira wondered if there had been others who had pitied him, and then realized it was a stupid thing to wonder. Of course there had been, but she wasn't one of them. She stroked his chest, teasing a little as her fingers strayed lower and lower. Joe's body responded, hardening, as it had before. She smiled, and let her hand move down to cover him, feeling the silky warmth expand beneath her touch. It amazed her that something so hard could also be so soft.

She stroked him, watching the transformation with fascination. Bodies were such amazing things. Feeling astonishingly bold, she leaned closer, wondering if her mouth on him would feel as good as his had to her. She touched the satin-fleshed surface with her lips and felt him jerk under her touch, heard his gasp. This time she didn't mistake his reaction for pain. Her lips curved in a smile against his hot skin, and she tried to remember what he'd done next. Oh yes. Tongue. Delicately she flicked her tongue out. Salt, and something else, something distinct and unique that somehow reminded her of mangoes. Strange, but not unpleasant.

Her hand tightened around the base of him as he'd shown her before, but this time she let her mouth engulf the broad, blunt tip. Joe's response was an explosive moan that sent shivers through her. It felt very powerful, to be able to provoke this kind of a response in someone else. Very powerful, and very erotic. She recognized the ache between her thighs this time, knew it for what it was. She remembered his fingers inside her, and felt empty. His invitation echoed in her mind, and she lifted her head, letting him go with some reluctance, then moved to straddle him. His hands cupped her hips and guided her over him, stroking her over him, moistening himself in her wetness, and at the same time increasing her arousal. She finally stopped him, reaching down to hold him still, and took a moment to get him in the right spot. Finally, he was there.

Nira closed her eyes, wanting just to feel for the moment. She could feel his pulsebeat where he rested just barely within her. Slowly she eased down, feeling him forge inward. She pressed down more firmly, feeling herself stretch. The deeper she took him, the less comfortable the stretch became. He was broader than his fingers had been, and she had too-quickly reached the limits of his preparation. She reached between them and realized with a shock that he was only a little way in. Well, if there was one advantage to being an Immortal, it was the knowledge that no pain would last more than a few moments. Setting her jaw, she braced her hands against his shoulders, and pushed herself down firmly.

Pain bloomed between her thighs, and she gasped in surprise. She hadn't quite expected it to hurt that much. Joe reached up to brush her hair out of her face and shook his head.

"Slowly, sweetheart! We're not running a race here, we're making love. You're supposed to do it slowly, gradually so it doesn't hurt. Now, how bad is it?"

"Not so bad," she lied, for the moment wanting nothing so much as to climb off and relieve the burning ache his presence inside her caused. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the pain eased dramatically. Just as it did, Joe went stiff, his eyes widening in shock.

"What the hell is that?"

"What is what?" she asked, blankly.

He shivered again, clutching at her hips, his body arching involuntarily under hers. "That!"

"I don't understand, is something wrong?"

He looked puzzled. "No, not wrong, not really, but I've never felt anything like it and I'm sure as hell no virgin. Wait, it's stopped now." His expression was disappointed and relieved at the same time.

That gave her the clue she'd needed. Whatever he had felt had started when the pain had eased, and stopped when the pain had gone. Realizing what must have happened, she giggled, and he arched an eyebrow at her.

"Well? Are you going to let me in on the joke?"

"I healed."

"You what?"

"I healed. You know how quickly we heal. That's what you felt. You've seen us heal, haven't you? The little sparks?"

Understanding lit his face and he shook his head, grinning. "Well I'll be damned! That's what it was?"

"It didn't hurt, did it?" she asked anxiously.

"No, in fact it felt pretty good, but it did kinda freak me out for a minute there. You know us guys, we tend to worry about our. . . equipment."

Nira laughed, understanding, well aware of that particular male obsession. Experimentally, she moved on him. There was no pain, just a lovely, filled feeling, even better than fingers. She tried circling her hips, and liked that even more, the way it brought him against the sensitive bud at the top of her cleft. Joe closed his eyes and caught his lower lip between his teeth, pleasure written clearly on his expressive face. She felt a surge of excitement at the realization that she had caused that pleasure, and she reached down to touch him where they joined. He shuddered and moaned, his hips moving under hers. She leaned forward and found it gave her more control. The tight ache inside her was intensifying, a tight-wound spiral of pleasure. Joe reached up to caress her breasts, cupping their fullness, stroking his thumbs over her nipples.

That was enough to free the pleasure, and it uncoiled inside her like a spring of tension-steel, sending pleasure lashing through her in waves. Somewhere in the midst of it she heard Joe moan, and felt his body shudder beneath hers. The knowledge that she'd given him as much pleasure as he had given her loosed another swell of pulsing delight to sparkle through her. Finally she had no strength left, and she collapsed onto her partner, panting as she calmed, hearing his heartbeat slowing as well, where her ear was pressed against his chest. They lay in each others arms for a long time. After awhile, Joe shifted their position to a more comfortable one and drew the blankets up over them, and the rain lulled them to sleep.

* * *

Joe woke up fast, adrenalin pumping, and it took him a moment to sort out why. Finally the loud pounding and the insistent doorbell made it through the haze of sleep to identify the cause of his sudden awakening. Nira, too, was awake, sitting bolt upright and looking disoriented and afraid. He waved a hand at her and rolled his eyes as he reached for the robe that lay on the seat of his chair. Pulling it on, he grabbed the rings over the bed and swung himself into the chair, then tugged the robe closed and belted it..

"It's probably some damned salesman," he said disgustedly. "I'll get rid of them."

Nira shook her head violently. "Joe, no! Wait for me! It's one of us, I can feel them!"

"One of who? You mean an Immortal?

She nodded, her eyes wide with fear. He frowned. "Great, that means it's probably MacLeod wanting me to break some more Watcher rules. Or Ryan, wanting me to rescue Mac from some demented scrape or other."

"MacLeod? Ryan?" she queried blankly.

"A couple of my friends. Look, don't worry, I'll be fine." He swung the chair around to head for the front door, but she stopped it and came around to kneel by the chair, her expression worried. "Joe, what if they want me? They might harm you to get to me."

Joe studied her, his eyes narrowed. "You told me that it didn't matter whether or not you were a virgin. Did you lie to me?"

"No! I wouldn't lie to you! It doesn't matter!"

"Then no one would be trying to get to you, right?"

She hesitated, biting her lip. He reached over to press his thumb against the spot she'd bitten and shook his head, grinning. "Relax. It'll be all right."

She stared at him soberly. "What if it's not your friend?"

"Well then, I guess I'll deal with that too," he wheeled over to the nightstand and opened the drawer, taking out the small handgun he'd kept there since Lauren had been killed. "There. Does this make you happy?"

She stared at the gleaming metal and shivered. "I. . . yes. If that's what it takes for you to be safe, it makes me happy."

Joe tucked the weapon into the pocket of his robe and headed for the door again. Whoever it was had continued to alternately ring the bell and pound on the door. As he unlocked the door, he grumbled loudly.

"All right! All right already! I'm coming!" He opened the door as far as the safety chain would allow and peered out, one hand on the weapon in his pocket. As he saw who stood on his porch, he sighed, took his hand out of his pocket, and reached up to release the safety chain. He backed up the chair so his visitor could enter the house, and watched with raised eyebrows as he stepped inside, dripping water everywhere. He was soaking wet.

"Okay Pierson, what's so all-fired important that you had to drag my ass out of bed?"

The deceptively youthful-looking Immortal wiped his face ineffectually with his hands, and looked around. "Is Mac here?"

"No, what makes you think he is?"

"Someone's here, I can feel them. Is it Ryan?"

"No," Joe said, beginning to enjoy himself.

"Amanda?"

Joe snorted. "Get real."

That brought a quick smile to his friend's face, but it was quickly gone and he sighed. "All right, keep your secret, but I had to come. I'm afraid I have bad news."

Joe wondered what bad news would bring the oldest Immortal halfway around the world to see him. Mentally he braced himself and nodded for Methos to continue.

"I'm sorry to have to tell you that your friend Sam Hayes was reported dead to the U.S. Embassy in Bolivia a few days ago. Apparently he died of heart failure on some sort of agricultural expedition."

Joe felt relieved. It was bad news, but also it was old news. "It's okay, Adam. I knew about it."

Methos looked startled. "You knew? How?"

"A mutual friend told me."

Methos absorbed that, frowning, and then shrugged. "I didn't realize the news would have reached you already. I thought it would come best from someone you knew."

"I appreciate that, Methos. It was above and beyond the call, as they say. Look, let me get you a towel."

"No, wait, there's more."

"More?" Joe asked, turning.

Methos nodded. "This time, it's bad news for me. The woman Sam was watching, Nira Groves, is missing."

Joe froze. "Missing?"

Methos nodded again, his expression pained. "She flew into the airport here in Seacouver two days ago, but seems to have disappeared. She was scheduled to fly out the morning after she arrived, but she missed her flight. She's not registered at any hotels or lodgings that I could determine, and her rental car hasn't been returned."

Curious, Joe pried a little. "What is she to you? You said this was personal bad news."

Methos sighed, pacing. "She's a friend, a very old friend."

"What kind of friend?" Joe found himself asking, even though part of him didn't really want to know. Then again, he couldn't be _that_ kind of friend, or Nira wouldn't still have been a virgin. The thought cheered him.

"A wonderful friend," came a soft reply from behind him. He saw Methos' eyes widen, and the smile that lit his face transformed him from homely to handsome. He opened his arms, and Nira ran past Joe to fling herself into Methos's arms, only to yelp and draw back a moment later, staring down at her soaked chemise in dismay.

"Petros! Look what you've done! You're dripping wet!"

"Sorry, love, it's raining and I hitchhiked from the airport. I was just so happy to see you that I forgot! I thought someone must have taken your head!"

She shook a finger at him. "And who would risk killing me on Holy Ground? That was your idea, you should have more faith in it!"

Joe's jaw dropped. "This is Petros? The guy who killed Sylvanus?"

Nira nodded, beaming. "And I haven't seen him in far too long, speaking of worrying about friends losing their heads!"

"Mine's quite intact, for which I am truly thankful!" Methos said, laughing. "I've just been attempting- somewhat unsuccessfully, to keep a low profile. I'm glad you're okay, though. You had me worried. How'd you end up staying with Joe, anyway?"

Joe and Nira exchanged a glance, and Nira started to blush. Joe grinned, waiting to hear her explanation. Methos looked from Nira to Joe, and back, and an eyebrow lifted as he finally registered Nira's state of undress and dishevelment, Joe's hastily donned robe, and Nira's blush. He crossed his arms and just looked at her, eyebrow still raised. Nira managed to grab hold of what was left of her composure, and spoke.

"I came to tell him about Sam, and he was kind enough to offer me a place to stay, since I had none."

The look of amused disbelief on Methos face nearly set Joe laughing, but Nira was trying so hard to be earnest that he couldn't do that to her. Taking pity on her, he spoke. "What she's not telling you is that she was a little under the weather that first night."

"Under the weather?" Methos echoed. His gaze ranged over his friends, his mouth still curved in an ironic smile, and he shook his head. "As will I be if I don't get dry. Mind if I use your shower?"

"Help yourself," Joe said. "Towels are in the linen closet, and if you toss your wet stuff out I'll throw them in the dryer."

"You're a prince," Methos said, heading for the bathroom, leaving Joe and Nira alone, staring at each other. Nira smiled sheepishly.

"Thank you. I just didn't know what to say. I've never been in this situation before. It seemed not quite the right way to tell him."

Joe chuckled. "I don't think he needs telling, but you're right, it's a little awkward. How long have you known Adam?"

"Adam?" she asked. Is that the name you know him by?" At his nod, she sighed, turning to caress one of his plants as she looked out the window at the rain. "It seems like forever! I can hardly remember a time when I didn't know him. Some of my earliest memories are of Petros visiting the house where I lived as a girl. Not long after that, he took me to the Temple to learn the mysteries."

"You knew him before you became Immortal?"

She nodded. "Long before." She laughed. "When I was young, like many foundlings I used to dream of families, and I fantasized that he was my real father. I was terribly disappointed when I learned that couldn't be true."

"He mentored you, then?"

"Not exactly, though he would have, had he not had the misfortune to die publicly a few years before my transition. He couldn't return to take me through it, because he'd had to move on by then. But he made up for that later. He's always seemed to watch over me."

Joe smiled. "Your own personal guardian angel?"

Nira laughed. "Or devil, more like. I've known him long enough to know that he's no angel."

Joe grinned, and gestured at her clothing. "Speaking of things celestial, did you know that slip's nearly see-through when it's wet?"

Nira glanced down at herself, and went scarlet. "Oh! How could you two let me stand there and talk looking like this?" She turned and hurried toward the guest bedroom where her things were. Joe chuckled, shaking his head, and glanced down the hallway, noting a soggy bundle of clothing outside the bathroom door. He retrieved them and put them in the dryer, then went to his own room to prepare for the day.

* * *

When he emerged, twenty minutes later, he knocked on the bathroom door. Methos opened it, hips swathed in a towel, holding a second one in his hands as he dried his hair. Joe handed Methos his robe.

"Here, wear this while your clothes finish drying."

Methos nodded, and took it, started to close the door, then stopped, an odd look on his face.

"Is this where I ask you if your intentions are honorable?" he asked, a half-smile on his face that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Joe studied his friend soberly. "I guess you have that right. Let's just say I'd never deliberately hurt her."

Methos nodded. "I knew you wouldn't, but that leaves a lot of territory uncharted."

"It does, but it's her choice whether to explore it or not."

Methos nodded again, and his gaze was open and honest. "You're a good man, Joe, and that's the best I could ask for her."

"I'm flattered."

"Don't be. It's the truth. Be gentle with her, she's special."

"On that you have my word." Joe put out his hand, and Methos shook it firmly.

"I'll be out in a few minutes," he said, closing the door.

Joe stepped back and noticed that Nira's door was still closed. He chuckled at the idea that he'd managed to get ready faster than she had, and then headed into the kitchen to put a pot of coffee on. He still didn't have anything edible in the refrigerator, though, and he mentally kicked himself for not having stopped by the store the previous day.

At loose ends, he went back out to the living room and picked up his guitar, idly strumming chords to loosen up his fingers. After only a few moments, he heard footsteps and looked up to find Nira standing there, dressed sedately in a heather-rose sweater and black slacks. She carried her hairbrush, and it was clear what had been taking her so long when he watched her start detangling a section.

"Don't stop," she coaxed. "I love to listen to you play."

He played a bit more, grouping notes together into a melody, watching her brush her hair, and wondering how he was going to explain this. It seemed like he was always going one step further, breaking more and more rules. First revealing the Watcher's secret to an Immortal, then becoming friends with first one, then three of them, now he was sleeping with one. Ah well, life was full of changes, this was only one of many. That reminded him of a song he'd wanted to add to his repertoire, and he slid into those chords, experimenting with the rhythm.

"That's beautiful," Nira said. "What is it?"

He grinned. "Our theme song, darlin'." He played a couple of intro bars, hummed the melody just to be sure he remembered it right, and then started to sing.

"Everything must change, nothing stays the same. Everyone will change, no one stays the same. The young become the old, and mysteries do unfold. That's the way of time, nothing and no one doesn't change. There aren't many things in life you can be sure of, Except rain comes from the clouds, Sun lights up the sky, and hummingbirds do fly."

Nira smiled, and put down her brush to listen more intently as he continued.

"Winter turns to spring, a wounded heart will heal But never much too soon, yes everything will change The young become the old, and mysteries do unfold. That's the way of time, nothing and no one doesn't change. There aren't many things in life you can be sure of, Except rain comes from the clouds, Sun lights up the sky, And music makes me cry." **

Joe watched Nira's dark eyes fill with tears, and put down his guitar, reaching to pull her into his arms. He held her, stroking her back, and her hair, until she lifted her mouth to his. They kissed softly, without the urgency of immediate desire, more in a sharing of comfort, then she drew back.

"Thank you, for teaching me to fly."

"Thank you for reminding me I can," he said. "Now, like I said before, no tears unless I'm playing sad songs, and that one isn't sad so it doesn't count."

She smiled. "There are many kinds of tears, and only a few of them are sad."

He chuckled and nodded. "So there are."

"Is that coffee I smell?" Methos asked loudly from down the hallway.

His voice broke the spell that held them, and they moved apart. It was enough for the moment.

* * *

_Finis_


	7. Chapter 7

Nira studied her old friend, trying to figure out what seemed different about him. Perhaps it was only time, or the shock of finding out that her Petros was really Methos, the oldest living Immortal. She was still dealing with the ramifications of that idea, a little awed, and a little angry that he'd never told her before, and might not have now, save that his friends here knew. She and Methos had known each other for millennia and he had not told her his secret, yet these newcomers, even a mortal knew it. Why now? What was different now? Why let them in and not. . . .

That was it. That was what was different. Petros had never let anyone in before. Not her, not anyone. Not until now. Ever since she'd known him he had kept everyone at arm's length, and she had learned from his example. Even the best of her friends had never been really close, and neither had his. What had changed for him that had made such a difference? Thinking back on what had changed for her recently, she drew a startling conclusion.

"Who is she?" she asked, certain her supposition was correct.

Methos looked at her, eyebrows lifted. "She who?"

"The woman you're in love with," Nira said, smiling. "Don't tell me you're not in love. I'm familiar with the symptoms."

To her surprise instead of the impish delight she expected to find in his face, his gaze was unexpectedly serious. Instinctively she put her hand on his arm.

"Petya? What is it?"

He smiled suddenly, and shook his head. "Nothing important, love, just my insecurities showing. Don't fret. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but there is no woman."

Nira studied him a moment longer, but he seemed fine, his mask once more in place. Whatever he'd felt was hidden once more. Clearly he didn't want to discuss the subject, and she knew from long experience it would do no good to try to draw him out. Acquiescing to his wishes, she changed the subject.

"So, Joe tells me you have friends here, besides him. Friends like us."

Methos nodded. "A couple, though Ryan might not acknowledge that, at least we're not enemies. But Mac and I are definitely friends."

The look on his face was clearly anticipatory, like a child on Christmas Eve. Nira was glad to see that. She had been pleased that he seemed to have a firm friendship with Joe, and from his expression it appeared that this 'Mac' must be as close. Methos was the kind of person who needed attachment, yet their lives so rarely allowed that.

"Mac- that would be the one Joseph spoke of? The one with the 'penchant for getting in trouble?'"

Methos chuckled. "That sounds like MacLeod all right. The boy's a disaster magnet, and too damned noble for his own good."

Nira smiled. "I know the type." She was looking at one, no matter how pragmatic he claimed to be. "Do you think I could meet them, this Ryan, and MacLeod?" she asked tentatively.

Methos pointed to a building a couple of blocks away, a sturdy, inelegant three-story construction of red brick and stone. "That's where we're headed. I wanted you to meet them."

They covered the remaining distance to the building in a few moments. As they ascended the stairs Nira stopped to read the sign, and frowned, puzzled. "DeSalvo? I thought his name was MacLeod- or is that the other one, Ryan?"

Petros (Methos, she corrected herself mentally. It was hard to remember) shook his head. "DeSalvo was the name of a friend of MacLeod's, a mortal who used to run the Dojo. I think Mac keeps the name as a kind of memorial for him. He was killed by one of us."

Nira sighed, a little depressed by that. As they came to the top of the stairs she stopped suddenly, momentarily overwhelmed by the Presence of another Immortal. Methos grinned.

"Well, at least one of them is here, anyway. Come on, let's go find out which one." He led her to a set of glass-windowed doors and into an open, wooden-floored room that smelled of sweat. Nira tried not to wrinkle her nose as she perused the muscular men using various pieces of athletic equipment. None of them paid the slightest attention to the pair who had just walked in, which told her none of them was the Immortal she sensed. Petya also was ignoring them, his gaze fastened expectantly on the old freight elevator in the corner.

Something about his expression gave her a momentary pause, something almost- tender? Before she had time to identify it, the elevator cage rose and a man stepped out. His stance was wary until his gaze settled on Methos, then he smiled, and the impact of his charisma hit her like an almost tangible thing. She tensed, instinctively drawing back. Sylvanus had been like this man, almost too beautiful, his attraction nearly irresistible. Her gaze flew to Methos, seeking reassurance, and was stunned by what she saw. There was no woman, he hadn't lied to her, but he was in love. She'd seen it flash in his eyes before he had lowered them and replaced the longing on his face with a mocking smile.

"MacLeod." he said evenly.

"Me... Adam!" the other Immortal said warmly as he came toward them. Nira didn't miss the quick change of name. "It's good to see you! What are you doing here?" For just a moment Nira thought they would embrace, but the movement became a handshake instead.

"Watcher business, nothing important," Methos said, shrugging.

The newcomer turned to Nira, eyebrows raised. "And this is?"

"This is an old friend of mine," Petya said. "Nira Groves, this is Duncan MacLeod."

Nira saw recognition flare in the man's dark gaze as he caught her hand in his and bent over it, brushing his lips softly across her skin. "An honor and a delight to make your acquaintance, my lady." Duncan murmured, charm threaded through every syllable.

Methos rolled his eyes. "Knock it off, MacLeod, she's taken."

MacLeod's gaze flashed to Methos as he released Nira's hand, and his eyebrows lifted. "Yours?" he asked with a hint of an edge in his voice.

Methos shook his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. "To my great sorrow, no. She's Joe's."

"Joe?" MacLeod asked blankly. "Joe who. . . Joe Dawson?" His voice sounded incredulous and his gaze swung back to Nira, who was getting a little annoyed.

"I am a friend of Joseph's, yes, but I do not belong to anyone." she looked directly at Methos as she issued the admonishment, and he had the grace to look embarrassed.

"Sorry, I didn't mean it that way."

"Good. I thought better of you." She turned back to MacLeod and smiled. "I'm pleased to meet any friend of Petya's. And you don't have to watch your words, I know who he is so you may call him by his real name, though I'm afraid it may take me awhile to get used to using it. Until very recently. . ." she looked meaningfully at Methos. ". . . I had always known him as Petros."

MacLeod looked amused. "Ah, just told you, did he? Well, I can't say as I blame him for wanting to stay anonymous. Methos is a far more intriguing target than some youngling nonentity."

"But he knows that he has never been in danger from me."

Methos sighed. "Okay, I admit it. I screwed up, okay? It's just that secrecy gets to be kind of a habit."

MacLeod sighed. "It does, doesn't it? Come on upstairs, I've got beer in the fridge, and other things if the lady prefers."

Nira chuckled. "Something non-alcoholic, please. I think I learned my lesson at Joe's the other night."

"I sense a story here," MacLeod said as he led them to the elevator.

Nira, watching Methos, followed his gaze, and hid a smile. The man did have a very nice posterior, the kind with a curve that looked as if it would fit nicely in the palm of one's hand. Duncan lowered the elevator cage and pushed the button for the third floor. The noisy mechanism ruled out conversation until the lift reached its destination and they stepped into a large, open loft. It was comfortably furnished and looked very homey. She could tell the Scot was a man who enjoyed his creature comforts. The wide, low bed in the back of the room caught her eye, and she couldn't help but wonder if Methos had ever shared it with MacLeod. She felt herself blush in response to the thought and was grateful to be distracted a moment later by MacLeod's voice.

"So, what happened at Joe's?" MacLeod asked as he moved into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. "Orange juice okay?" he asked, waving a container at Nira.

"That would be fine. As for Joe's, well, let us simply say that five shots of Sambuca in quick succession was too much for me. But I can't say that I regret it, because otherwise things might not have turned out as they did."

Duncan nodded knowingly as he handed her the glass of juice. Behind him, Methos pulled two beers from the refrigerator and opened them, handing one to MacLeod. Their fingers met briefly for a moment before Methos turned away and MacLeod gestured her toward the sitting area. Did she imagine that they had seemed reluctant to move apart? She took a seat on the couch, sipping her juice as MacLeod settled at the other end.

"Joe Dawson and an Immortal," MacLeod said, shaking his head. "That comes as a bit of a surprise."

"I don't know why, considering the fact that he's a Watcher, and has several Immortal friends. It was almost inevitable," Methos told him.

"Speaking of Watchers, I wonder what they'll have to say about this?"

"They won't say anything, because they won't find out." Methos said quietly; coming over to sit in the rocking chair opposite MacLeod and Nira on the couch.

"Come on, Methos, they probably already know. Her Watcher would have reported it."

Nira shook her head. "No, he couldn't have. He's dead, and they have not yet assigned me a new one."

"Doesn't it ever bother you? The idea that they're watching you all the time?" His glance at Methos told her this was a conversation they'd had before.

She shrugged. "It never has before, though it might now. I suppose if I ever did anything I would not want them to watch, it might have bothered me before. I am more concerned for the impact they might have on Joseph than their influence on myself. I would not want him to. . . get in trouble."

Duncan snorted. "Believe me, Joe's been in more trouble with the Watchers than you can shake a stick at."

Nira stared at him, puzzled. "Why would I wish to shake a stick at. . ."

Methos cut in. "It's a metaphor, love."

"Oh," she said, a little exasperated. "English has so many, it's hard to know them all."

Duncan chuckled and picked up his beer, taking a drink before lounging back, his gaze on Methos. With an awareness she wouldn't have had a week earlier, she watched his fingers encircle the neck of the bottle and slide slowly up and down it. Her eyes widened, then she quickly looked away, trying to pretend she hadn't noticed. Methos had. She watched his eyes dilate, then he looked away almost as quickly as she had, a faint flush on his fair skin. Suddenly feeling very de trop, she glanced around the room for something to save her, and found it.

"Do you mind if I use your telephone?" she asked MacLeod brightly. "I promised Joseph I would call and see when we should meet for lunch."

Methos looked at her oddly, but MacLeod waved a hand toward the kitchen. "Be my guest."

She nodded and got up, hurrying over pick up the handset and dial. The number rang several times, and she was about to give up when someone finally picked up. "Joe's, what can I do ya for?"

"Joseph? It's Nira."

"Nira? What's up, darlin'?"

"I wanted to check and see when we should meet for lunch." she said carefully , aware that both men could hear her.

"Lunch?" There was a momentary pause. "I thought you were with Methos."

"We're over at MacLeod's now, and I nearly forgot that I had promised I would call you."

There was another pause as Joe absorbed her out-of-the blue statement, then he chuckled softly. "Oh-ho, I think I get it. Well, they have been apart for quite awhile, I guess I can understand. I'll be right over to get you love, and don't worry, I'd be happy to take you to lunch. That's the nice thing about bein' the boss. I can set my own hours. I'll be over in about fifteen minutes, okay?"

"That soon? Well, yes, I suppose I could, if that's the only time you can make it."

Joe laughed again. "Think they can keep their hands off each other for that long?"

"I think so," she smiled, imagining the grin on his face. "And thank you."

"No problem. Always happy to help out, especially you."

Behind her she heard Methos make a low-voiced comment about hiding Duncan's beer bottle if he didn't stop fondling it, and was puzzled by MacLeod's shout of laughter in response. She made a mental note to ask Joe about that particular metaphor, she was sure it had to be one. She hung up the phone and turned back toward them, hoping she looked appropriately downcast. "I'm sorry, Methos, but Joseph can only go to lunch if we leave right away. He's on his way to pick me up."

Methos lifted an eyebrow in a way that told her he knew she was lying, but he didn't call her on it. "I'm sorry too. I had thought we might have more time to reminisce."

She smiled. "We'll still have plenty of time for that, I'm not leaving soon, and I think you are not either, am I right?" She flickered a glance toward MacLeod, then back.

Methos looked at her thoughtfully. "I'd like to hang around for a few days, at least, so I guess I'd better find a place to stay. I won't be staying at Joe's, will I?"

She shot him a dark look. "Not if you wish to remain friends."

"You can always bunk here, I don't mind." MacLeod said nonchalantly.

"That's awfully generous of you. I may just do that. Living on a graduate student's budget isn't always easy."

"Especially when you have to do international research," Duncan said, grinning. "The airfare'll kill you."

"Fortunately I always come back to life immediately afterward," Methos retorted drily. "Nira, shall I escort you downstairs?"

"I think I can find my. . ."

"Please, I'd like to," he said, before she could finish her statement. He stood and took her arm, steering her not toward the elevator but to the door around the corner from it. Duncan made a move to join them but at Methos' head-shake, he sat back down as Methos ushered Nira out the door. He waited until they were down the steps and on the sidewalk before he stepped back and studied her. "What was that all about? You didn't have any plans for lunch with Joe."

Nira felt a flush creep up her face. "No, but I. . . wanted to see him."

"Don't lie to me, I've known you too long. I can always catch you. Tell me the real reason."

She looked at him helplessly. "You. . . he. . ." she started, then stopped again, at a loss for how to explain.

Methos' eyes widened and he pulled back a little. "Oh, hell. I had no idea we were that obvious."

"You were not, it's just that I'm a little- sensitized to it at the moment."

Methos smiled. "Ah, well, that I understand." He shook his head, smiling a little as he reached out to touch her face with gentle fingers. "Love, it was sweet of you, but not necessary, we could have waited. You're important to me."

She bit her lip and nodded. "I know that, but now that I've been there, I understand the- urgency a little more." She smiled, shaking her head. "Actually, I understand it a lot more. He wants you, you want him. I am, at the moment, in the way. Please believe I'm not offended or hurt. I just want you to be happy. Look, there's Joseph now. Go on, go back to your Scot."

Methos leaned down and kissed her on the cheek, his lips warm against her skin. "Thank you. I don't deserve such friends."

She scowled at him. "Yes, you do. Don't say such a thing to me again. Now go and, how do they say it? 'Get it out of your system.'"

He chuckled and waved at Joe as he turned and walked back up the stairs and into the building. Nira opened the car door and got in, leaning across to greet Joe with a kiss before she sat back and began to buckle her seatbelt. As Joe signalled and turned to check traffic, she remembered the metaphor she'd meant to ask about.

"Joseph, what does it mean when someone says they will put something 'where the sun does not shine?'"

* * *

Methos took the stairs up to the loft, and tried the door, suspecting it would be unlocked, and it was. Closing and locking it behind him, he stepped into the room. As he passed the elevator, he turned the key that shut off loft access from the elevator. Duncan was standing at the window looking out as Methos came up behind him.

"You know it's pretty stupid to leave your door unlocked, and not even turn around when someone comes in." Methos said, looking over Duncan's shoulder to see Joe's car moving off down the street.

"I suppose it might be, under some circumstances. But I knew it was you."

"How?"

"I. . . just knew. I can't quite tell you how. I knew it was you downstairs, too, though Nira's presence confused me a bit. I wonder what it was she said to Joe? I could see him laughing, hell, I could almost hear him laughing! It took him a good five minutes before he could drive."

"She was probably commenting on what sluts we are."

Duncan turned finally, eyebrows lifted. "Sluts?"

Methos grinned and nodded. "Apparently so. She didn't think we'd be able to keep our hands off each other all afternoon, so she called Joe for a rescue."

Duncan turned, looking surprised. "What? Why? We weren't even doing anything!"

"Oh, like that bit with the bottle wasn't obvious?" Methos scoffed good-naturedly.

"That was a joke!" Duncan protested.

"Oh, partly, yes. But it was also real, wasn't it? All the way up the elevator, all I could think of was the way you greeted me last time I was here." Duncan's eyes darkened. Methos knew he was remembering too, remembering pushing him up against the wall, yanking his jeans down, and putting that luscious mouth on him. "I want you, Duncan. I need you."

Without a word Duncan reached out and pulled him close, just holding him for a moment, before his mouth found Methos'. The kiss was gentle, welcoming, undemanding, and Methos felt the sting of tears. 'God, I love you,' he thought, wishing he were brave enough to say it aloud. 'I love you.' Three small words, too vast to speak. Unable to say them aloud, he had let his actions speak for him and would continue to do so as long as he was able, as long as he lived. He no longer feared his own death, he feared Duncan's. Could he live if the Highlander did not?

With a mental sneer at his own melodramatic musings, Methos pushed away the morbid thoughts and answered the mouth on his, putting the passion he felt into their kiss. His tongue stroked the silky warmth that fused with his, his teeth caught the full pad of Duncan's lower lip, gently, only hinting at the savagery he knew they were both capable of. To be with him, Methos would take whatever he could, give all he could, and be content.

Duncan broke their kiss, lifting his head, his rapid breathing betraying his excitement. His fingers moved to the buttons on the worn shirt Methos wore, the fabric so old it was nearly translucent. The buttons gave easily, and Duncan's hand slid inside, his broad palm warm and gentle as he touched the taut nipple the fabric hid. The contrast between the honey-gold of Duncan's skin and his own paleness seemed strangely erotic. Methos put his hand on Duncan's shoulder and felt the rich texture of silk like cream beneath his fingers. The Highlander's sensual nature expressed itself even in his clothing.

He found himself stroking his fingers up and down Duncan's chest just to indulge his own need for sensation. A peculiar curiosity took him, and he leaned down, and licked the hard curve of pectoral muscle, the silk between his tongue and Duncan's skin. Silk tasted. . . like silk. A little dusty, like a moth's wings looked. Just barely he could taste the familiar salt of Duncan through it. He saw the rise of nipple through damp silk and with shaking fingers pushed aside the fabric so he could taste flesh instead.

Duncan pulled away. "Not here, not now, not this time. Come to bed."

Somehow they made it all the way across the room. Methos was about to lie down when Duncan stopped him and slowly removed Methos' clothing before he pushed him back onto the bed and moved over him, his body a broad, solid barrier against loneliness. He seemed determined to make this reunion as slow and drawn-out as the last one had been fast and wild. His hedonistic side was in full force as he used his lips and tongue and fingers to wreak havoc on the self-control Methos was trying to retain. When Methos reached to reciprocate, Duncan caught his wrists in one hand and held them above his head while he continued the ecstatic torment. Methos gave up then, letting him do as he pleased, and what he pleased was devastation.

Lips touching him, feather-light, never the same place twice, random grazes of hot satin. Touches of tongue, a bare flicker of moisture that left cool trails behind initial fire. Fingers smoothing down skin that ached like a fever-dream after so long a separation. Finally the teasing began to concentrate, moving lower and lower. Just when he expected Duncan to take him in his mouth, he placed a hand under his calf, gently adjusting his leg to expose the sensitive area behind his knee, and placed a kiss there. The touch was so unexpected that it was nearly as erotic as the kiss he had anticipated. Methos moaned and couldn't keep his hips from lifting as Duncan slid his mouth down the back of his leg to his ankle, where he nipped at the tendon there before continuing on. No... he wasn't, he wouldn't. . . not his toes, no, oh God!

"No! Don't please. . ." was as far as he got before he exploded in a fit of giggles, frantically trying to tug his foot out of Duncan's grasp. The hand on his ankle tightened, and a finger drew a line firmly down the sole of his foot, and the unbearable tickle suddenly stopped as if someone had thrown a switch. He gasped until he caught his breath, and then lifted his head so he could see his torturer. Duncan was sitting at his feet, one hand still wrapped around his ankle, but his gaze was on Methos' face and he looked amused.

"Ticklish?" he queried drily.

"Just a little," Methos admitted weakly.

"All this time and I never knew," Duncan said with an evil grin.

Methos put the back of his hand to his forehead in a classic silent-movie gesture of despair. "You've found my Achilles Heel, I'm doomed."

Duncan laughed. "Somehow I don't think you're going to be fighting many battles barefoot."

"I can think of better things to do barefoot," Methos said, moving his free foot down the outside of Duncan's thigh. "Like what we were doing."

Duncan eyed him with a sigh. "Looks like I have to start over."

Methos chuckled. "What a hardship."

* * *

Nira glanced at Joe, he was still grinning. She blushed, remembering the explanation he'd just supplied for that "metaphor" she'd asked about. Though she knew it had been a joke, it had brought home to her exactly what it was Methos and Duncan were up to. Up to. . . oh Lady, now she was making double-entendres. She giggled, and Joe looked over at her as he slowed for the stoplight ahead.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

Her face got even hotter and she shook her head. "Nothing."

He lifted an eyebrow in patent disbelief. "Hon, I think you'd better open a window and cool things off in here before that 'nothing' sets you on fire. What's got to you this time?"

She twisted her fingers in her lap and avoided his eyes. "I was just thinking."

"About?"

She knew he wasn't going to give up. "That metaphor!" she answered with an aggravated huff.

He eyed her for a moment longer, then began to chuckle. "I see. A little shocked, are we?"

She bit her lip. "Not shocked, exactly. I just never thought about such things in any detail before."

He made a wry face. "I know that feeling. Your reaction's about what mine was the first time I realized what was going on there. I almost fell outta my chair."

Nira laughed. "Well, then we're even. You know, I've known Petya. . . I mean, Methos, nearly my whole life and I've never seen him look at anyone like he looked at your MacLeod."

"He's not my MacLeod." Joe said, sounding amused.

She made a face. "You know what I meant."

He chuckled. "Yeah, I know. Where do you want to have lunch?"

She looked at him from beneath her eyelashes, as she'd seen other women do. "Well, I'm not really hungry."

He took his eyes off the road long enough to read her expression, and a broad grin spread across his face. "Is that right?"

"Mmmhmm."

"Well, then, I don't suppose you have any ideas on how to kill some time?"

"I might be able to think of something," she said, trying not to smile.

"I didn't know it worked that way for women too."

"Didn't know what worked what way for women?" Nira asked, puzzled.

"Well, most men find the idea of two women together to be a turn on, I just didn't know it worked in reverse."

The blush that had finally faded returned in a heated rush. "Joseph! I didn't say. . ."

He laughed. "You didn't have to. Let's go home, sweetheart. I think I know some ways to kill time, myself."

* * *

True to his word, Duncan did start over, but from the bottom this time. Studiously avoiding Methos's toes, he worked his way back upward, very slowly, touching, tasting, tormenting, until all sensation coalesced at his victim's groin. Realizing what he was going to do, Methos finally found voice to protest.

"Oh, God, I don't think I can take that!"

Duncan's only answer was a low laugh as his mouth closed around the aching length of Methos' cock, his tongue hot and silky against pulsing flesh. A moan of pleasure slid from Methos lips. There was almost nothing better than this in the world. Not just sex, though that had never lost its lustre, but sex with love was so much more. Only the incredible conflagration of a Quickening surpassed it. The melding of bodies, almost of minds, the sense being subsumed by intimacy. . . it was something he'd lived without for far too much of his life, something he both feared and craved. Love was almost an addiction and he knew it, but somehow he couldn't fight it either.

He reached down and cupped Duncan's head in his hands, stroking the sleek, dark hair, feeling the brush of eyelashes as he traced the prominent contours of cheekbones, felt the flex of muscle in his cheeks with his fingers, echoed by the suction around him. He was close, the urgency harsh and irresistible. Give in a voice in his head urged. Give in

Was that his own voice or Duncan's? It didn't matter. He obeyed, his body arched, taut, as pleasure ripped through him. Each pulse seemed to leave him suspended until the next one chased the sensation away only to leave him hanging again, slow and hot and overwhelming. He sagged, finally drained, and Duncan pushed himself up, leaning on one arm, looking like a pin-up, the smile on his face smugly sensual and self-assured. He was still mostly dressed, his smoke-blue shirt hanging open to frame his hard-muscled torso, his slacks strained by the erection they contained. Methos sighed and reached lazily to run a finger down the inside of Duncan's thigh, feeling the soft-harsh prickle of finely-woven wool.

"You're dressed up today, got a hot date?" he queried idly.

Duncan grinned. "I do now."

Methos smiled and studied him curiously. Duncan wasn't in the habit of dressing this well, at least not since Methos had known him. A slow smile came to the surface. "Is this your way of coming out?"

Duncan frowned, puzzled. "Hunh?" he asked eloquently.

Methos' grin widened. "You know what they say, gay men always dress better than straight men."

Duncan rolled his eyes and chuckled. "I had meeting to go to this morning, I hadn't had time to change yet when you showed up."

"Don't ever change, Highlander." Duncan groaned in pain at the pun and dropped his head into his hand. Methos slid his hand back up Duncan's thigh to cup the rigid shape beneath the fabric. "I can help with that," he said, pretending to misunderstand the source of the groan.

"I thought you'd never offer," Duncan said, his gaze sleepy and inviting.

"Stop that," Methos said, disconcerted.

"Stop what?"

"The male-model routine. It's making me wonder where you've got the video-camera stashed."

Duncan laughed, falling back on the bed. "Now there's a thought. Don't mention that to Amanda. She'd do it."

Methos chuckled and reached for the button on MacLeod's slacks. "She would. Speaking of our lovely companion, where is she? I thought she was still here." Finishing with the button, he opened the zipper and began to work the beautifully-tailored slacks down sleek hips and muscular thighs.

"Your information network isn't as efficient as usual. You just missed her, she left a week ago, for Monaco, she was going to an abbey there," Duncan said, lifting his hips to facilitate Methos' work.

Methos stopped in mid-tug, startled. "An abbey?" he asked incredulously.

Duncan grinned. "Well, it used to be. I think it's a spa these days."

Methos relaxed and started tugging again. "You had me going for a minute there. The thought of Amanda in an abbey. . . heaven help the nuns!" He finally got the slacks past Duncan's knees and the rest was easy. Socks followed a moment later, and he thought briefly about seeing if Duncan's toes were as vulnerable as his own. No doubt they wouldn't be. No Highland warrior worth his salt would be ticklish. When he looked up Duncan was lounging back, watching him, a slight, expectant smile hovering on his lips. On the other hand- Methos reached for a foot.

Methos had never seen Duncan move so fast. One moment he was draped over the bed like some sheik in a harem, the next he was sitting with both feet tucked under him, looking distinctly wary. Methos grinned evilly.

"Never tell me that my idol has feet of clay! A Highland Chieftan who's ticklish? Don't you know better than to reveal your weak spot to your opponent, MacLeod!"

"Who's revealing it? I'm protecting it!" he countered.

Methos sighed. "Relax, I won't touch them, you have my word."

Duncan eyed him for a moment, probably looking to see if his fingers were crossed, and then nodded. "Thanks. I've always hated that. My cousins used to hold me down and tickle me when I was a boy."

Methos' stared at him, surprised. "You?" He had a hard time imagining anyone getting the best of Duncan, even as a boy. Duncan nodded, and Methos studied him a moment longer, then lifted an eyebrow. "So, how'd you get even?"

Duncan grinned. "Stinging nettles in their pallets. For whatever reason, I don't react to the things so they couldn't even catch me proverbially red-handed."

Methos whistled softly. "Remind me not to get on your bad side, Highlander. I suspect you've got a mean streak."

"You've already seen me at my worst," Duncan said softly, unexpectedly serious.

"And your best." Methos responded, not willing to get into that discussion again. "Now shut up. Hasn't anyone ever told you that you talk to much?"

Duncan looked offended and opened his mouth to object. Methos leaned forward and occupied it with better things. At least, he thought so.

* * *

Nira's fingers clenched into the sheets, tightening on the fabric in lieu of Joe's more vulnerable skin. He parted her with incredible delicacy, and his tongue dipped into the damp heat of her body, unerringly finding the exact spot where she was most sensitive. She gasped, fingers and toes curling at the exquisite torture, her hips lifting her harder against the too-gentle touch.

"Take it easy," Joe urged, lifting his head.

She put a hand on his head and pushed him back down. "I don't want to take it easy!" she wailed. "Joseph, please!"

He laughed, the vibration maddening against her sensitized skin. "Yes ma'am. Whatever you say."

The touch against her firmed and quickened. She moaned, her eyes closing, seeing blue stars against the darkness. Goddess above, it was lovely, perfect, wonderful. . . and not enough. Dragging herself back from the brink of implosion, she pushed herself up onto her elbows which moved her away from him. He looked up, eyebrows lifted. She smiled.

"Turn over," she said suggestively, letting him know exactly what she wanted.

"No."

Nira was taken aback, he'd never said 'no' to her before. "No?"

He shook his head. "No, not this time."

"But I. . ."

"I think it's time we tried something different."

Her eyes widened. "Different?" A thought occurred to her and she gazed at him worriedly. "Joseph, just because I was a little aroused by the idea of Petya and his friend. . ."

Joe laughed, shaking his head. "Not that different. I know you're not quite ready for the advanced classes yet." He moved backward a bit, then pushed himself up on his arms. "Scoot down here."

Warily, she complied. "Like this?"

"Just like that, only keep comin' all the way down."

She was puzzled until she started to comply, and ended up beneath him, her thighs outside of his, knees bent and feet flat because the end of the bed was too close for her to stretch out her legs. When she realized that he had braced himself against the footboard the light dawned, and she started to smile as she wiggled the last bit, bringing the damp warmth of her sex against the hard length of his.

"I think I may like this different."

"I sure hope so."

Guessing that he needed both hands for leverage, Nira reached down and found the hard length of his cock. She stroked him gently, feeling him harden further under her touch, feeling the rapid beat of his pulse in her palm, the heat and solidity of him. She tilted her hips upward and tucked him into the cleft between her thighs, using her other hand to guide him to the entrance. He held there for a moment, until her gaze lifted to his, then he curled forward, and slid home. His eyes held hers rapt as his body began to move within her. Different, yes, but also the same. They fit as if she were sculpted to contain him.

"Joe," Nira breathed his name softly, "Oh, yes."

She liked the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. The tenderness in his gaze sent a shiver through her, as deep as the merging of their bodies. She hadn't realized this was possible, this feeling, this unity that she'd spent millennia years avoiding. This was how one understood all the foolishness and foibles of the world, and what sheltered against the all of life's pain and despair. Not sex, that was just an aspect, but the act of sharing oneself, be it body, mind, or soul. Finally she had learned the lesson that two-thousand year's lip-service had failed to teach her. Love was all. Love, in any of its myriad forms, whether that of friend, lover, parent, child. . . it didn't matter. Love is all. What she felt for Joe was different from what she felt for Petya, which in turn was different from what he felt for MacLeod, and again different from what Joe felt for Petya. Yet, all were aspects of the same thing. Love.

She reached up to frame Joe's face between her hands and draw his mouth down to hers. He closed his eyes and brushed his lips across hers, gently, then claimed her more fully, his tongue echoing the movements he made in her welcoming flesh. He gasped, and shuddered, she felt warmth flood her and she wrapped her arms around him as a gentle swell of pleasure overwhelmed her. Stroking his back, she felt his heartbeat gradually slowing, and put her lips against his throat, silently absorbing the pleasure of just holding him.

* * *

"Oh, God. . ." Duncan moaned, burying his face in a pillow, five thousand years of technique nearly overwhelming him. "Methos, you're killing me!"

A hand lifted the pillow off his face as his tormenter took pity on him and let him slip from his far-too-talented mouth. "What was that? I couldn't quite hear you."

"Never mind," Duncan managed, panting, trying to dredge up some semblance of control. It was embarrassing to be so damned easy. He stared down at himself to avoid looking at the smug amusement he knew he'd find on Methos' face, wondering if his own face was as flushed as what he stared at. If so, he must nearly match the maroon sheets on the bed. He hadn't been this randy since he'd passed puberty. Methos knew tricks that somehow kept him going far past the point at which he would normally have lost it. A slight pressure here, a touch there, and what had been the last pulsebeat before explosion was suddenly the beginning of a new climb upward toward a completion the oldest Immortal seemed determined not to let him reach.

Finally catching his breath, Duncan pushed himself up onto his elbows and let his head fall back, shaking out his hair, feeling air braid through the sweat-soaked tangles. Methos regarded him quizzically for a moment, then he took a corner of the sheet and fanned Duncan with it. The air felt almost cold against his overheated flesh, and he couldn't suppress a shiver. Methos lifted an eyebrow.

"Make up your mind, MacLeod, are you too hot or too cold?"

"I'm too everything," Duncan admitted ruefully.

Methos chuckled. "Now that, my friend, is very true." He stared at Duncan for a moment, and his gaze softened. "I've been too hard on you, haven't I?" he asked gently.

"I'm- " he started, then stopped. How the hell did he reply to that? Say yes, and he'd admit to being overwhelmed, say no, and risk having it start all over. "I don't-" he began again, only to come up wordless again.

Methos reached out and pressed his fingers to Duncan's lips. "Never mind. I know the answer." He stretched out, his lean body only inches away, his head resting on the pillow that had muffled Duncan's moans only moments earlier. He reached down, running a finger over the still-engorged shaft between Duncan's thighs. "You're so damned beautiful, MacLeod. So perfect." He sighed. "I. . ."

Whatever he'd meant to say was cut off suddenly as he moved, planting a kiss in the shallow well of Duncan's navel before using his tongue to demarcate a line down Duncan's abdomen. Duncan moaned before he got past the thicket of dark ringlets.

"Methos, please! No more!"

Methos sighed heavily. "You've got to work on your stamina, MacLeod."

"My stamina's fine, yours is unnatural!"

Methos shook his head. "Not where you're concerned. There I have none, nor willpower either." With that he moved, coming over Duncan, lowering his body until they were touching full-length. His eyes drifted closed as he rocked his hips, a low growl of pleasure escaping his throat as their bodies strained together. He cupped Duncan's face in his hands and found his mouth, tongue sliding along the seam of his lips, urging them open, then drinking deep when they did.

Duncan arched upward, straining for closer contact, for a faster rhythm. He'd had enough teasing, enough almost-climaxes. Duncan kissed him again, almost desperately, then broke the kiss and reached for something on the nightstand. When he turned back, he reached for Methos' hand and dropped the bottle of lubricant into his open palm.

"Finish it," he growled, his voice harsh with need.

Methos' eyes widened, clearly a little startled. Since they'd started sleeping together they had settled into sort of a routine, and Duncan knew this broke tradition. Methos seemed to have accepted that Duncan had that alpha-male need for dominance that was as much a part of him as his skin. Even so, he clearly wasn't about to question Duncan's offer. With one last stroke against the hard form beneath him, he moved away. Duncan rolled onto his belly, but Methos cupped a hand over his shoulder and pulled him back until he was on his side instead. He moved a knee forward, between Duncan's thighs, angling it upward so it opened him. Duncan's pulse rocketed, his breathing harsh and fast as he waited.

Methos didn't tease him this time. His fingers were sure as they applied the slick film that would ease their coming together, and then Methos hand was on Duncan's hip, steadying him against the firm, steady pressure. For a moment Duncan tensed, instinctively resisting. Methos drew back slightly, and kissed the back of his neck.

"Let me in," he whispered in Duncan's ear. "Let me love you."

Fingers stroked, opened, pressed inward. He moaned as they slid into him, his hips moving involuntarily. God, how could he have forgotten how good this was? What part of him resisted this? Whatever idiotic scruple held him back, he renounced it. With a shiver, Duncan deliberately relaxed, willing himself into receptivity. He wanted this. There were many other paths to pleasure, but something in him said this was what he needed now. Fingers moved, gentle but irresistible, searching out his deepest, most primitive responses. Another hand covered his aching cock, fingers slick with residual lubricant. He shuddered with pleasure, and before he could even think to resist, he was entered.

Duncan clenched his fists, but not against any pain. This time it was against the almost overwhelming pleasure. He'd been brought to the brink too many times already, he had nothing left in him with which to resist. As Methos began to move, he pumped into the fingers that surrounded him. Methos made a sound, almost a sob, moving faster, driving Duncan hard. This time there would be no trick, Methos' thrusts held the same urgency that he felt himself. Words Duncan could not translate spilled from the older man's lips, their tone longing, pleading, then Methos shuddered and cried out, a sound that had no language, yet was all languages. As he felt Methos' heat flood him, Duncan moaned, abandoning any pretense of control. His body clenched and pulsed, his hot slickness caught in Methos' hand and used to stroke him over and over until he begged to be released.

They lay spooned together, breathing slowing, replete with pleasure. Methos sighed, and nuzzled the back of Duncan's neck. Duncan reached back and stroked his face, wanting to say something, but uncertain of its reception. After a moment, he sighed as well. What was the point in trying to hide it? They both knew the truth.

"Methos?"

"Mmmm?"

He sounded half-asleep already. He shouldn't have said anything. "I. . ." Duncan stopped. Why was it so hard? Not just with Methos, but with anyone. Why could he never say it? What was he so afraid of? He knew, really. Admitting it was like opening his soul. It left him bared and vulnerable. He felt Methos waiting, patient, quiet. "I. . ." he tried again, and stopped again. Fear burned cold in his throat. If he admitted it, he would lose him. That was why he couldn't say it, he could barely even think it. He had lost everyone he admitted loving. It was almost as if something dark waited at his shoulder, listening for the words, so it could identify its next victim.

"It's hard, isn't it?" Methos said into the silence.

"Yes," Duncan said hoarsely, his throat taut with unshed tears. "I'm afraid." That was somehow easier to admit.

"So am I," Methos voice betrayed the truth of that. "We shouldn't tempt fate, Highlander. Let it go. Let's not draw the jealousy of the gods by saying it aloud."

Duncan shivered. "As long as you know. I want you to know."

"I do." he stroked Duncan's hair, then let his hand rest, warm, on his shoulder. "I know. And you know, too."

Duncan nodded. "I know, too."

* * *

"Joseph?"

"Mmm?"

"Do you believe in love?"

He rolled over and looked at her for a long moment, then he nodded, slowly. "I do. What would life be without love?"

"Empty," Nira said softly, the certainty of personal knowledge in her voice. "Very empty. Do you fear it?"

"Fear what?" Joe asked, confused.

"Love."

"Ah." He lay there for a moment longer, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling. "Sometimes. It's a powerful thing, love, and power can be scary."

She sighed. "How is it you know that, when you're so young?"

He smiled wryly. "We short-timer's don't have a choice, we gotta learn fast. What's got you thinking about love?"

"Petya," she said. He looked surprised, and she explained. "What I saw in his face today wasn't just desire, it was love. I think he would die for his friend, if it were needed."

"He's already tried."

She looked at him, eyes narrowed. "What?"

Joe sighed. "I shouldn't have said that. Forget I did."

She studied him a moment longer, and slowly began to smile. "No, I won't, I can't, but I won't press you. Still, I am relieved."

"Why?"

"Because it means the offer was made, and refused. That tells me all I needed to know." She settled in against him, and pillowed her head on the curve of his chest. "Thank you."

His arm tightened around her, his hand idly stroking. "Don't tell them I told you."

"I won't, I promise."

He yawned widely, his eyes drifting closed. Nira smiled against his skin, and closed her own eyes.

* * *

_Finis_


End file.
